Shades of Grey
by Aurilia
Summary: AU, picks up at the end of OotP. Receiving a muggle contraption from a parallel universe leads Harry down a path he otherwise would not have taken. Meanwhile, Gabrielle Delacour has plans of her own for our favorite green-eyed wizard. Manipulative!Dumbledore, Ron!bashing, independent!Harry. See AN for more info. Rating for language.
1. Interdimensional Courier

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** This started off as a response to a rather detailed challenge put forth by Dfnt at restrictedsection-dot-org a very long time ago. Somewhere along the line, parts of what was included in the challenge mutated slightly while other parts were dropped completely, and this is what resulted. It picks up just at the end of chapter 37 of OotP (just after Harry is told the prophecy in Dumbledore's office after the events at the Ministry of Magic).

Some elements of HBP and DH are included, and there will probably be spoilers for all seven books at some point, so if you've not read them – which, if you're reading fanfic, I'm sure you have – go and do so. I wouldn't want to ruin canon for you. One little, insignificant detail which won't be included are those ruddy horcruxes (horcruxi? horcruces? horcruci? however the fuck you spell it, y'all know what I mean) – I hate those damn things.

In case you've not figured it out yet, this is AU. It will also contain a couple of original characters (though not many), eventual mentions of femslash and/or slash (nothing graphic, if it even gets into this tale at all), 'bad language', violence, betrayals and alliances, and more, so if any of that offends, FUCK OFF.

Additional intel you might want to know: I know that Harry and Snape (and likely the other characters I'm using) will have very OOC moments. This is intentional, so please don't be too nit-picky about it. Also, this is a manipulative!Dumbledore story, which contains Weasley-bashing, so if that isn't your cup of tea, you might want to go away quietly. This will also wind up being a Harry/Gabrielle romantic pairing (it was part of the original challenge, if I recall correctly), and most of you know I don't often write romance, so you'll probably need to shout out when I write something that just doesn't work. Thanks in advance.

Now, on to the story!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Prologue: Interdimensional Courier  
_

Harry was confused, hurt, angry, and in no small amount of uncomprehending shock. Before his discussion with the headmaster, he had just lost his godfather. To be informed immediately thereafter that he must either kill or be killed was a little much to take in, truth be told. _I need somewhere to think_. Harry didn't notice as his footsteps took him ever closer to the Room of Requirement. He still felt as though he wanted to either break something or strangle the headmaster. Unfortunately, neither option was viable at the moment. _I get what he said about trying to give me a childhood, but damnit! He should have told me sooner! Had I known what I was _really_ up against, I would have done more additional stuff in DADA than just learn the bloody patronus charm! _He stopped short, facing a door that had suddenly appeared before him. Harry looked around and noticed where he was. _I wonder what the room thinks I need?_ He turned the knob and stepped through the doorway.

The room was hardly bigger than a closet – maybe two meters wide and the same in length. The ceiling was low enough that Harry could stretch up and brush it with his fingertips. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all formed from uniform gray stone, cool and rough to the touch. The room was lit in a bluish hue, though Harry couldn't see any source. He closed the door behind him, _At least I'm pretty sure I could scream out my frustrations in here and not be heard._

Harry jumped when the stone in the centermost part of the floor began to rise with a groaning, grating sound. "What the…?" When it reached waist-height, the stone stopped rising. The air above it shimmered, like heat waves bouncing up off of hot pavement, and then thickened to resemble fog or smoke. It flared with white light before collapsing in on itself. When it was gone, a small rectangular object was resting on the stone. It was sleek and dark gray, with rounded corners and was about eight inches long, four inches wide, and only a centimeter or so thick. "Huh…" It also had a yellow sticky-note on it that read 'Open me, Harry'.

"This isn't a good idea," Harry muttered to himself, knowing that things that suddenly appeared out of thin air without a reasonable explanation, like a nearby wand, usually portended bad news. "This is so very _not_ a good idea," he repeated, and then, like many who came before him, he promptly ignored his own advice.

Harry reached out with a shaking hand and picked the object up. It felt cool to the touch and totally smooth. He examined the edge and saw that there was a line running around two of the shorter sides and one of the longer. There was also a small slide-catch in the middle of the longer side. He slid it to the right and carefully opened the object. He realized when he did so that he'd seen something like this advertised on the telly the previous summer; it was a palmtop computer. Dudley had wanted one, but Vernon had said that they were too expensive. It was very nearly the only time Dudley had been refused _anything_.

The computer made a beeping noise and the blank screen lit. It glowed blue for a moment, and then a series of letters and numbers Harry couldn't begin to understand scrolled past faster than he could read. This lasted only a second or two, and then the screen cleared with a chiming noise. The background picture was a muggle-style photograph of a rocky beach somewhere the water was crystalline blue. Harry thought it might be somewhere in Greece, or maybe the West Indies. He glimpsed several icons hovering above the photo before a program opened by itself. He nearly dropped the computer in shock when the window revealed a tiny, square picture of his mother next to a list of commands. He followed the instructions of the top command and pressed 'P' to play.

The picture of his mother jerked erratically for a moment before it smoothed out. The video was of her face only, but one of her hands reached up and tucked an errant lock of hair behind an ear just as she smiled and said, "Hello, Harry. I hope this message finds you well." She shook her head a little, "Strike that. I hope this message finds you, period." She smiled again. "There's so much I need to tell you, I don't know quite where to begin. My world and yours are bound to be different…"

Sighing, Harry's mother closed her eyes for a moment. "I suppose I should start with the basics. My name is Lily – no doubt you know that already – _Evans_. That's right, Evans, not Potter. I'm from… How to describe this in a way you would understand, particularly since I've no clue what you know of science…? Um… Put most simply, I'm from an alternate universe – the world next door, temporally speaking. I don't know if that's clear or not, but it's true. Hopefully, my other gifts will soon be making an appearance and we'll be able to speak to one another.

"Like I said, I'm Lily Evans. I am a technomage working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Interdimensional Threats – it's a sub-unit of the Department of Mysteries of the Ministry of Magic. Simply put, I'm an Unspeakable. I work on ways of taking the good parts of muggle technology and altering them to work for and with magic. For example, this computer runs solely on magic, has no memory limit, and is light years ahead of its muggle counterparts in terms of sheer computing power. Furthermore, now that you have activated it, only _you_ will be able to turn it on – it recognizes your aura, and if you've any knowledge of the basics of magic, you'll know that an aura is more individualized than a fingerprint.

"Inside this wonderful little contraption, I've made sure to provide you with a complete library of reference manuals," Lily smiled again, "everything from Quidditch Basics for Beginners to Advanced Dueling Concepts and Practices for the Dark Lord in You. I even made sure there were plenty of fictional works included as everyone needs time off every now and again; you should check out the works by J. K. Rowling soon, she's an author from a different universe than either of ours. I think you'd find her stories interesting, to say the least.

"Now," Lily frowned, "for the bad news. Situated as our universes are in the fabric of space-time, we – that is, my department – have studied your world extensively. Unfortunately, we cannot directly alter things there, other than sending non-living magical objects through; and even then, it's hit-and-miss. What we have been able to uncover is disturbing. I have some warnings for you that I strenuously encourage you to heed:

"Firstly, _do not trust Albus Dumbledore_. I cannot stress this enough: Do not, for any reason, trust this man. We haven't been able to uncover everything of relevance as of yet, but what we have found is more than enough for this warning. The strings he pulls are much closer to you than you realize. He has several spells in place that serve to control most of the people with whom you have contact. We don't yet have a full list of these people, but we do know that the following people are sure to be reporting anything related to you directly to him: Ronald and Ginevra Weasley, Hermione Granger, Minerva McGonagall, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Rubeus Hagrid, and Draco Malfoy. Do not blame these people for their situation, Harry. It is doubtful they are aware of what Dumbledore has done, nor does our research indicate that these people even _remember_ their interactions with Dumbledore beyond those which the man has no reason to remove.

"Secondly, you _must _go to Gringotts as soon as possible. There are several pieces of important information you need at the bank, and my partner has said that our next… hmm… 'care package' will arrive in your personal vault sometime within the next few hours.

"Third and lastly, our research has shown that there are several spells present on your person at all times. Unfortunately, we are unable to fully determine what they are, as cross-dimensional interference is causing havoc with our instruments. My partner, Harvey, thinks its because of your world's current proximity to Hailey's Comet." Lily grinned again, "But I think it's more to do with your personal proximity to Hogwarts.

"If Harvey's calculations are correct, and you _do_ manage to receive all our little gifts, I'll be talking with you soon. I know you probably have questions – I promise to do my best in answering them. For now though, remember my warnings and _be careful_." The video stuttered to a final freeze-frame, with Lily smiling directly at Harry through the camera, and the program popped up a window that read 'Play again? y/n'.

At some point during the video, Harry had backed to the nearest wall and slid down it. Now sitting on the floor, he did the only thing he could. He pressed 'Y' and watched it again.

* * *

**A/N2: **I've got approximately 30K words written for this. Maybe posting it and getting some feedback will kick my muse in the ass enough that I can finally finish this one. Personally, I'm getting sick of it languishing on my hard drive.

*sings off-key* Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to meeee...


	2. Three is a Power Number for a Reason

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** And here is chapter one. The rest of what I've written thus far shall be released one chapter at a time, every few days, time and internet willing.

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter One: Three is a Power Number for a Reason  
_

After having watched the video six times in a row, Harry could repeat it verbatim. He had never been given anything of his mother's, aside from a couple of pictures of her. Indeed, most people hadn't told him much of anything about her, other than he had her eyes. On one level, he knew that the Lily who was in the video wasn't his mum, but on another, he couldn't help but wish she were.

His anger at the headmaster grew until his prior agitation was more aptly described as a minor irritation, but he tried to ignore it. He knew from recent experience that giving into his anger wouldn't solve anything; ranting and raving and destroying things weren't going to help, even if it did make him feel marginally better for a short time.

He was about to leave the room when a little voice in the back of his head spoke up. Harry thought it sounded quite a lot like Moody. _How do you know you can trust this? You can't even trust your own mind, Potter. Check it out and see if what she said actually has any basis in fact._ Harry returned to his seat by the wall and began poking around in the library Lily'd said the computer contained. It didn't take him long to locate what he was looking for – a copy of one of his Defense Against the Dark Arts books. It was a spell he had bookmarked to learn for the DA, but hadn't gotten to before they had been caught. He reread the information and practiced the incantation until he was sure he had it right, and then sat the computer down and stood, retrieving his wand from his pocket.

"Exibeo magus," he said, flicking his wand as though to dislodge a fly from the end. He was rewarded with a blue glow along the length of the wand. He rolled the wand along his arm and the glow flowed off the wand and sank into his arm. He could feel it tickling along his nerves for several moments before the glow pulsed out of his forehead and splashed, for lack of a better word, into a floating display of words.

**Spells Found: 3  
**_Passive Spells: 1  
Active Spells: 1  
Interactive Spells: 1_

Spell Descriptions  
_Tracking Charm – Passive – linked to hair –  
set in place 14 years, 7 months, 26 days, 15 hours, 22 minutes_

_Obliviate – Active – blocking approximately 54 years' time –  
set in place 14 years, 7 months, 26 days, 15 hours, 10 minutes_

_Core Block – Interactive – set to magical core –  
set in place 14 years, 7 months, 26 days, 15 hours, 3 minutes  
renewed yearly_

"Bloody _hell_," Harry breathed. _She was right. Three spells… Huh? How can I have an obliviated memory consisting of 54 _years_? That just doesn't make any sense! And what's a 'core block'? I've never heard of that one before. Wonder if the library Mum sent has anything on it…_ Harry sat back down and retrieved the computer. Lily had been kind enough to include a search engine for the library – _Maybe it was her partner or someone else who programmed it. Doesn't matter, I'm thankful it has one. The library here in Hogwarts could use something like this. Would make homework infinitely easier _– which sorted out his search terms in order of likely relevance. His first search resulted in him learning how to transfer the tracking charm to his shoelace. The second search was somewhat disappointing. The library didn't have anything on how he could be under an obliviate spell covering far more time than he'd been alive, and further stated that one couldn't remove an obliviate from oneself. Harry resolved to ask Lily about it when he spoke with her. His third and final search yielded some rather disturbing information.

_**Core Block**_

_Invented in 98 A.D. by Augustus Defactum, the core block spell is one of the most distasteful spells ever to come into existence. Defactum was a wizard of somewhat mediocre power, yet was also a member of the Roman Magical Senate, and as such had some rather lofty notions of just who was allowed to be more powerful than he in his household. According to the custom of the time, the head of a magical household was the witch or wizard who held the most magical power. Since Defactum was less-than-average in magical strength, he devised a way to ensure his 'rightful' place by locking away the magical ability of anyone in his home who had an innate magical talent higher than his own._

_The core block spell is flexible, meaning that it can be adjusted and fitted to any particular witch or wizard, it can also be altered to make the victim have anywhere from zero to ninety percent of their magic available for use. If a victim is totally blocked from their magic, they are, for all intents and purposes, a squib. This spell was adopted into the Roman Magical Senate for both personal and judicial use. Many of the senators of the time admired Defactum's originality and used the spell in a similar manner. Other senators used the spell as punishment for crimes; once it became common use as such, violent crimes in wizarding Rome fell by nearly three hundred percent. It is not known why its use as a judicial spell has fallen out of favor, but there is no record of it being used in a judicial setting since 433 A.D., however it is recorded that this spell required annual reapplication or it would slowly wear off._

_The core block spell is a combination of potion and a charm. See figure 744A for wand motion and incantation for the charm and insert 840 for the potion formula. This spell, as stated, must be reapplied annually for its effects to persist. It should be noted that the potion element of this spell is odorless and tasteless and is enhanced by combination with pumpkin juice or China Black tea._

_The counter spell for the core block is likewise a combination of potion and charm. See figure 744B for wand motion and incantation for the charm and insert 841 for the potion formula. The potion element for the counter spell is decidedly not odorless or tasteless. Notes from the time liken the smell to rotting fish, and the taste to rancid butter. Its efficacy can be enhanced by combining it with shitake mushrooms or pickled herring. It should further be noted that once the counter spell is performed, a core block will not be able to be reapplied to the individual for the duration of that person's life._

Harry scanned through both potions listed. They looked easy enough, comparable to some of the potions they had studied back in his third year. He nodded to himself, _I can do this._ Thinking hard on what he needed, the Room of Requirement shifted around him to provide a potions workstation. A quick shout-out to Dobby secured the ingredients he needed. It took roughly an hour to complete the potion. Harry chopped up a couple of shitake mushrooms, also provided by Dobby, and poured the potion over them. The instructions said to incant the counter charm and then down the potion within one minute. He hoped he could do so – there really was a _lot_ of potion to get through. Grimacing, Harry incanted the charm and set to downing the mushrooms-and-potion mixture, sparing a moment to think, _I hope Snape doesn't notice where the ingredients came from._

It was awful. Normally, Harry didn't mind mushrooms. In fact, Molly Weasley had a recipe for stuffed mushroom caps that he quite adored. The potion, however, was badly misrepresented in his source text. It made polyjuice taste like the finest Honeydukes chocolate; it was _that_ bad. Pointedly ignoring his gag-reflex, he ate and slurped his way through the bowl with only milliseconds to spare. Harry could actually _feel _the last swallow hit his stomach.

And then it suddenly became _worse_. Pain unlike anything he had ever before felt ripped thorough his very being. Cruciatus had _nothing_ on this pain, for crucio was solely physical. This pain was hot and searing and tore through his mind, his body, his _essence_. It felt like it had gone on for hours but when it finally faded away, Harry had to triple-check his watch; it had only lasted a minute or so. _I think I finally understand that saying about time being relative._ Sticky, hot, and sweaty, Harry pulled himself up off of the floor and resettled his glasses on his face. "Well, _that_ was productive," he sounded overly sarcastic even to himself. Tucking his wand back into his pocket, he snapped the computer shut and headed out of the Room of Requirement.

His watch said that it was nearing two in the morning, but Harry still had things to do before the night was done. Several things. _I don't think I've ever been _grateful_ for insomnia before._

He tiptoed through the common room, two of the younger students he didn't really know all that well had fallen asleep next to a scattered game of Exploding Snap. _The last thing I need right now is someone getting in my way._ Harry hurried up the stairs to his dorm and hit Dean, Seamus, and Neville with mild sleeping charms that would make sure all three of them wouldn't wake until morning, no matter what noises he made. Once that was done, he removed his worn trainers. He tossed the sneakers, complete with tracking charm, on his bed. Ron and Hermione were still in the hospital wing or so he assumed, so there was nothing to worry about on that front. He changed out of his sweaty clothes and took a quick shower. Dressed in clothing that didn't feel like it had been drenched in dragon drool, he felt a lot more human.

Before he pulled on his school shoes, he cast silencing charms on both of them. _I wonder why I never thought of this earlier? I'm sure it would have made avoiding Snape a heck of a lot easier._ Shrugging the thought away, Harry rummaged around in his trunk and came up with his invisibility cloak. He swung it around his shoulders and grabbed his Firebolt from its place under his bed – Dobby had been kind enough to retrieve it for him once Umbridge had 'left' the grounds. Not wanting to chance running into Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Snape, Harry unlatched the window and dove out, mounting his broom halfway down the tower. He hovered for a moment to secure the cloak in place, making sure no part of either the broom or himself showed before going back up to the window and pushing it closed. He couldn't relatch it from outside, but hoped that no one would notice it being open if he was unable to return before the boys awoke.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. _Flying to London twice in the same day has to be _some_ kind of record,_ he thought, aiming his broom southwards and urging it to its fastest speed.

After about half an hour, Harry realized he was flying a _lot_ faster than he'd done so previously. It took a moment for the why of the situation to settle in, but when it did, he chuckled. _Just how much of my power did Dumbledore block from me? I know that brooms respond to the power available in their riders in order to function, but I have to say that this is quite more than I expected!_ Harry dipped low when one of the highways came into view. The motorway was essentially empty, save for the odd lorry. He checked his watch as he passed a mile-marker and again when he passed another ten kilometers down the road. His watch read that only two minutes had gone by. _Wow. Three hundred kilometers an hour? I'm not even trying!_ He grinned and pulled his broom to a slightly higher altitude – high enough to avoid being a traffic hazard or colliding with bridges and light poles, yet still low enough not to have to worry about planes or helicopters – and then pushed his broom as fast as it could go.

The starlit countryside below him blurred dizzily before he got used to looking closer to the horizon for landmarks. It was closing in on four-thirty in the morning when he saw the lights of London draw near. Instinctively, he began to slow. Spotting Diagon Alley, he swooped in for a landing just in front of the bank. He was happy to see that his assumptions about the business were correct: It was open all night. Harry cancelled the charms holding his cloak in place and dismounted the Firebolt.

The guard goblin didn't even blink when he saw Harry Potter appear out of thin air with a broom on his shoulder and a silvery cloak hanging down his back. Harry smiled a greeting at the goblin, who didn't deign to show a reaction, and entered the bank.

It was as busy as Harry had expected, that is to say, hardly at all. There was a pale woman who could only be a vampire speaking with a goblin off near the cart tracks, and a teller was busily scratching out figures in a ledger. Harry approached the teller. "Morning, sir," he said.

The goblin looked up, "It is indeed, Mr. Potter. How can Gringotts help you today?"

"I was told that you had some… erm… 'important information' for me. Is this correct?"

The goblin held up a finger in the universal 'just a moment' gesture. "Perhaps, Mr. Potter. Allow me to check our records."

"Take your time, sir," Harry replied.

The goblin flipped through the same ledger he'd been writing in for several minutes. _I wish the bank here was a little more like a muggle one, with computers. Makes me wonder how long banking took for the muggles before they came up with them, especially since they don't have magic to help._ Finally, the goblin looked up. "Ah, yes, Mr. Potter. Our records indicate that you have not claimed either of your inheritances as yet. Since your guardians are muggles, and these are solely wizarding assets, you need not bother with getting their approval to do so. Insofar as Gringotts is concerned, you are financially emancipated; this does not mean that you are fully emancipated, however, only that you can act as your own guardian in any financial matter handled by Gringotts."

Harry nodded, "I understand, sir, except for one thing. 'Inheritances'? As in more than one?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter. We show you listed as the sole beneficiary of the House of Potter estate and the House of Black estate. There is some paperwork for you to fill out; if you would follow Slingnok she will show you to a private area where you will be able to do so in peace."

A goblin, assumedly Slingnok, appeared at Harry's elbow. "This way, Mr. Potter."

Harry followed the goblin, and realized that there were no outward differences between girl goblins and boy goblins, at least so far as he could tell. She showed him to a small lounge done all in dark woods, brown leather, and brass. A fresh tea service sat on one side of a desk, complete with a tray of scones. A pile of parchment scrolls occupied the other side of the desk, and an ornate white quill rested in an emerald green bottle of ink precisely in the middle. "If you have any queries on the paperwork, call for me."

"Thank you, ma'am," Harry replied. The goblin bowed and left him alone in the room. Harry paused for a moment, staring blankly at the closed door before shrugging and turning his attention to the veritable mountain of scrolls on the desk. He tentatively pulled one from the pile and unrolled it. _'Deed of Residential Property Ownership: Cottage in Godric's Hollow'… Hmm… Must've been the house where Mum, Dad, and me lived._ Even though Harry'd not had cause to file this type of paperwork before, most of it was rather self-explanatory. Whilst shuffling through the scrolls, there were a couple of times when his breath caught in his throat, particularly when dealing with something that had belonged to Sirius. There were only three scrolls remaining in the pile when Harry's day suddenly seemed to catch up to him. Yawning, he reached for one of the scrolls and mused, _I wonder how the goblins knew about Sirius already? I mean, it was only a few hours ago… wasn't it?_ He checked his watch for what had to be the thousandth time since waking up oh-so-long-ago. _Yeah. It's only been a half a dozen hours since…_

Pushing the stray thought from his mind, he forced himself to refocus his attention on the parchment before him. It was the certificate of ownership to Sirius' old motorcycle. Vague recollections of half-remembered dreams which he now knew were snippets of memory surfaced suddenly. He slowly traced Sirius' signature with one finger, remembering the night he'd learned the real truth about his godfather at the end of third year and how Sirius had asked if Harry wanted to go and live with him. A strange choking sensation seized his throat as the full ramifications of what Wormtail had done to his life began to surface in his thoughts. _If that damnable rat hadn't framed Sirius, then I could have grown up somewhere other than the bloody Dursleys'. If he had just left well enough alone after Mum and Dad were killed, then maybe I could have lived with someone who had actually _wanted_ me, who didn't despise and resent my presence. I could have had a real bedroom with toys of my own and I wouldn't have had to make an effort _not_ to learn in primary school. I would have known what magic was and what Hogwarts was and who my mum and dad really were. I probably would have also known a little more of what I was getting into with this whole fucking Voldemort situation…_

Harry's thoughts dissipated as that tight, hot feeling crept down into his chest and stomach and up into his eyes and nose. He dropped the quill and lifted his shaking hands to his head. His elbows propped on the desk, he buried his face in his hands and gave into the feeling of total despair that had been threatening ever since Sirius disappeared through that archway.

His shoulders shook and he could feel tears insinuating themselves into a layer between his face and his hands, but he didn't really notice them. All he could really pay attention to was the fact that he felt hollow; a scooped-out sensation centered somewhere behind his solar plexus that also had a vice-like grip on his heart. The emotional storm passed rather quickly, but left him feeling even more fatigued, not to mention a little grimy. "Stop it, Potter," he said to himself. "Crying isn't going to change anything. Just finish what you came to do. You can break down after this is all over, I promise." To further steady himself, he took several deep breaths, letting the air out slowly. When he no longer felt quite so much like the world was falling down around his ears, he picked up the quill once more and filled out the paperwork for the motorcycle and reached for one of the two remaining scrolls.

It was somewhat thicker than any of the others had been thus far, as was the last scroll remaining, and Harry rather doubted that the subject matter of either had anything to do with properties or vehicles or bank vaults. The one he'd picked up was secured with a length of black ribbon instead of the resealable wax crest of Gringotts. He untied the bow and rolled the parchment out flat. It took him several moments to realize just what it was he was seeing.

"Oh. My. God." Harry had to take another steadying breath. "The Black family tree wasn't kidding when it said 'The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black'. Why didn't Sirius _tell_ me he was a ruddy Baron? Or that _I_ would inherit the title?" He leaned forward and scanned the lengthy document. Most of it wasn't very clear; Harry wasn't sure if that was because he was so tired or because of the verbiage used, but a few phrases leapt out at him nonetheless.

…_enacted in 1309 by King Edward II…_

…_granted 'chosen heir' status in 1643…_

…_Wizengamot seat added in 1892…_

Harry noticed that the bottommost portion of the document contained dozens of tiny signatures, the last of which was Sirius' own. Harry set the tip of the quill down over the blank line next to the list intending to add his own name to the list. The quill, though, seemed to have other ideas. He was unable to get the quill to touch the parchment.

"Damn it. What's wrong?" He tried again with no more success than his first attempt. He got up from the desk and walked over to the door. He poked his head out and saw Slingnok standing in a guard position next to it.

"Finished?" the goblin asked.

"Almost, ma'am. There are only a couple of scrolls left, but I can't seem to sign the one I'm looking at. Would you know why?"

Slingnok looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, "Would you mind if I looked at the document in question?"

Shaking his head, Harry replied, "No, not at all."

The goblin followed Harry back to the desk. It took her only a moment to glance at the parchment scroll. "Ah, Mr. Potter, I see the problem. You will need to address the other scroll before you can sign this one."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling somewhat silly to have bothered the goblin. He felt he should have been able to figure that out on his own.

The last scroll was bound with a silver ribbon, and contained much the same information as the Black scroll, only in this instance the title inherited was 'Duke' and came with a seat on the International Confederation of Wizards. Other than that, and the dates involved, it was much the same as the Black scroll. To Harry's relief, the quill allowed him to sign the parchment without incident. He then returned to the now-last scroll and set the quill down and tried to make an 'H', but the pen wouldn't move. "Ma'am?"

The goblin, who had begun to pick up the scrolls, looked up. "You will need to sign with any and all titles – try beginning with a 'D'." She gave him what Harry hoped was a teasing grin, though it looked more like a bloodthirsty snarl.

Following her advice, Harry tried one last time. The quill finally allowed him to sign, and soon 'Duke Harry James Potter' joined the list of signatures on the Black scroll. Harry yawned hugely as he replaced the quill in the emerald green bottle of ink. "Was that all I needed to do, ma'am, or is there something more I haven't yet been made aware of?"

Slingnok favored Harry with another of her somewhat gruesome smiles, "I believe you will need to key yourself to the protections on a couple of the vaults involved, but that can be put off until you aren't quite so tired. Ragnok will be with you momentarily, I believe." With that, she bowed over her scroll-laden arms and left Harry alone in the room once more.

While waiting, Harry turned his attention to the tea service he had thus far ignored. The tea was far stronger than he normally enjoyed, but Harry shrugged and merely added a second sugar cube to his cup before downing the lot. _I'll need the caffeine, I'm sure._ He poured a second cup and downed it as quickly as the first before settling back in the chair a little with his third cup of tea in one hand and a scone in the other. He was about halfway done with both when the door opened and an older goblin strode in. Harry quickly set his snack down and stood, "Ragnok?"

The goblin nodded, "Yes, I am." He stared at Harry for several long moments, but not quite long enough for Harry to become nervous or uncomfortable. He cocked his head slightly to the side and said, "You are exhausted. Perhaps this ought to wait until you have had some rest, Mr. Potter."

Harry shrugged, "Why put off the inevitable, sir? What did you need with me?"

There was a spark of something that looked remarkably like surprise that flashed through the goblin's eyes before Ragnok spoke again, "It has come to the attention of Gringotts that you are under scrutiny from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Interdimensional Threats; we have received a letter from the head of their department affirming this."

"And?" Harry prompted when the goblin trailed off.

"And, Mr. Potter, this is quite an unprecedented occurrence, particularly since no such department exists in the current Ministry. We of Gringotts were hoping that you might be able to shed some light on the subject, as the letter we received was somewhat damaged and thusly lacking in additional information."

Harry tipped his head up to look at the ceiling for a moment and sighed. "I don't quite know what's going on either, sir, but earlier tonight I received a message from the same department telling me to come here. From what I understand, this department is part of the Department of Mysteries of an alternate reality – though I don't really understand that, either. Some of what I was told I was able to verify, one of which was that I had an errand to complete here 'as soon as possible'. So far, none of what I was told in my message has been untruthful, at least, as much as I can tell."

The goblin seemed to take that in stride. "Ah. I see now," he said before changing the subject. "Were you wanting to address the issue of keying yourself to the wards on your new vaults today?"

Harry couldn't stop the huge yawn that crept up on him. "I'd like to, but I don't think I would be able to do anything right now," he glanced at his watch. "I've been awake far too long as it is."

Ragnok reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a small vial of a clear, amber liquid. "This may help matters, Mr. Potter. It is a goblin invention, though wizards may use it as well. It will allow you to remain awake as long as is needed without suffering the side-effects of overtiredness. Be warned, though, when your need for alertness wanes, it will wear off immediately and you will sleep, regardless of your location."

Harry took the small vial, "Thank you, sir." He uncapped the vial and raised it in a little toast of thanks to the goblin.

"While you drink it, keep in mind what your final goal for the day will be. I would recommend 'getting into bed', for if you imagine something else, the potion will, as I have said, wear off immediately upon the completion of that task. We once had a goblin collapse thusly at the end of a tricky dragon-training session; he was roasted alive by the dragon before anyone noticed he'd not yet reported back from his duties."

Harry paused and stared at the goblin, unsure if he'd been joking. He glanced back at the vial and decided to not ask, and merely follow instructions. Oddly, the potion didn't taste like much of anything – a vast improvement over the rancid-cabbage-and-dirty-feet flavor most common to the potions he was familiar with. It had a texture that reminded him of cooking oil, but it didn't trigger his gag reflex. Mere seconds after swallowing it, he felt tiredness leach out of his bones and clarity return to his thoughts. Ragnok was wearing a smirk at Harry's obvious expression of wonder. "So, Mr. Potter, shall I send Slingnok to take you to your new vaults?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, sir. Thank you again for the potion. Oh, and I'd like to visit my other vault, too – vault 687."

"I shall arrange it for you," Ragnok replied. "Slingnok shall return momentarily to take you to your vaults."

Ragnok exited the room and Harry had time enough to finish his snack before Slingnok returned. The goblin carried a shiny, wooden box roughly the same dimensions as a cigar box. "Hello again, Duke Potter," she greeted him with that same bloodthirsty snarl.

"Just 'Harry', please, ma'am."

"Certainly," she replied, setting the box on the desk. "You may call me 'Slinnie', if you wish."

"'Slinnie'?"

She nodded, "Yes. The second half of a goblin's name is the familial. Hence, my 'last name' as you would put it, is 'Gnok'. We tend to use full names for business purposes, but I couldn't very well let you allow me a measure of familiarity and not accord you the same."

"So, does that mean you're related to Ragnok?"

Slinnie nodded again, "He's my grandsire." Changing the subject, she tapped the lid of the box, "There are a handful of items you will need in this box." She slid it across the blotter.

Harry looked at it for a moment. It was a dark, shiny wood, with brass hinges on the side furthest from him. Other than that, it didn't have any discernable markings. Shrugging, Harry flipped the lid up. The box contained… nothing. An inky blackness lapped with a watery consistency about a centimeter down from the edge of the sides. He leveled a questioning glance at Slinnie.

"It's a Box of Confirmation."

"A _what_?"

Slinnie's smile, for Harry was now certain that's what the feral snarl really was, resurfaced brighter than it had been before. "A Box of Confirmation. It confirms identity, making sure that the person in question really is who they claim. Polyjuice can't trick it, nor can any of the spells available to mask a magical signature. It sees through any attempt at artifice. We use it when dealing with the larger accounts."

"Oh," Harry looked back into the inky nothingness contained in the box. "What do I do?"

"Reach in and state that you're here to collect your inheritances. The box will do the rest."

"Thanks." Harry took a deep breath and plunged his right hand into the box. The nothingness wasn't hot, nor was it cold; it wasn't wet or dry; it had no real texture. If it weren't for the fact that Harry could see it – not to mention the fact that his arm sank into the box up to the elbow without hitting the bottom – he would have assumed it was simply an empty box. "I'm here to collect my inheritances."

He felt something cool and slick snake its way up his arm. "What's this black stuff," he asked Slinnie.

"Pure, undistilled truth."

"Odd… I would have thought truth, if it had a physical presence, to be… lighter. Clearer."

Slinnie laughed, "Ah, but Harry, when is the truth _ever_ clear? An old goblin saying is 'Truth is universal, perception of truth is not.'"

It made a surprising amount of sense. The cool slickness that had enveloped his arm suddenly disappeared. "Can I take my arm out now?"

"Yes."

Upon removing his arm from the… _truth_… Harry saw that he was now wearing several bits of jewelry. He recognized two of the pieces as signet-rings. One had the Black family crest on it, along with the motto 'Toujours Pur' (1). The other ring held a crest he hadn't seen before. The motto underneath the crossed sword and wand said 'Parilitas Gratia Veritas' (2). His correct assumption was that this was the Potter crest and motto.

The third and final piece of jewelry he wore was a silver-colored metal cuff. The band of metal – Harry was unsure if it was silver, platinum, white gold, or merely stainless steel – was about an inch wide and encircled his wrist. It didn't have a catch, nor was there any sort of break in the metal. Tugging on it a little revealed that it wouldn't come off. There weren't any other identifying characteristics on it – it was simply a smooth band of metal that was just loose enough to be comfortable.

"What is this?" he asked Slinnie, tapping the bracelet.

Slinnie stepped around the desk and took a closer look, "It appears to be platinum, Harry."

"That isn't what I meant."

Slinnie met Harry's gaze. "It's a bracelet."

Harry rolled his eyes, "I can see that for myself, thanks. Why did it come out of the box?"

"I honestly have no idea. It wasn't on the inventory for either the Potter or Black estates' use of the Box of Confirmation. I'll have someone look into it and owl you when we find out."

Deciding not to worry about it too much, Harry followed Slinnie out to the cart tracks.

* * *

**A/N2: ** 1. 'Toujours Pur' is the Black family motto, roughly translated as 'Always Pure'.

2. 'Parilitas Gratia Veritas' is what I've decided is the Potter family motto, roughly translated as 'Equality on Account of Truth'.

And in the time it took me to cobble together a crappy photoshopped cover for this thing, I managed to get three reviews. I am in shock - the only other fic I have that gets attention that quickly is _All at Once_! (Speaking of that fic - it is NOT abandoned! I just have a LOT of irons in the fire right now, so it's on the back-burner for the time-being.)

Thanks for reading!


	3. Becoming

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Finally a bit of Gabrielle. Unfortunately, this is the only bit you'll get until approximately chapter eight or so - please don't throw things at me. *ducks*

And this really is the last chapter I'll post today. Check for the next one on Tuesday or Wednesday.

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Two: Becoming  
_

Château Delacour was situated squarely in the middle of the wizarding section of the French Riviera. Though it wasn't as grand as some of the mini-palaces gracing the surrounding area, it was still respectably large and beautiful. Unlike many of their neighbors, the Delacours firmly believed that money didn't automatically bestow good taste; so many of the houses in the area had been built solely to show off their inhabitant's wealth. Château Delacour on the other hand, though smaller than the homes on either side, had a subtle beauty and poise, well befitting the women who lived there. The men who had graced Château Delacour over the years may not have looked like they belonged among the polished marble and intricate carvings, but closer observation would reveal they were just as much a fixture of the property as their elegant, entrancing counterparts.

Gabrielle Delacour was Fleur's little sister. Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons' Tri-Wizard Champion, head of Beauxbatons' ballet club, top in her every class… the list of accolades went on and on and oh, how Gabrielle _hated_ it. She was average in her classes, had little to no interest in most of the extracurricular activities, and loathed the fact that she was a little under half-veela. Here she was, three days before her sixteenth birthday, and she still looked like a little girl only half her age. _Why, oh _why_ did the veela side have to be active in me? Why couldn't I have been more like Fleur? All she ended up with was the looks and passive charm! _She_ didn't have to wait until she turned sixteen before looking her age! It isn't fair!_ Gabrielle slammed her hairbrush down on her dressing table and glared at her childlike reflection.

Her only real consolation was that she already knew who her lifebonded would be; she had met him just over a year earlier. _And if that doesn't just irk Fleur to no end,_ her thoughts turned from angry to vindictive. _She'd hoped that she would have a latent lifebond pull… HAH! I guess I won this round. I get the boy everyone wants – and may I say I think I'll look particularly good hanging on his arm? – and she's going to have to fight off every man who wants her just because of that passive charm she _still_ doesn't know how to turn off._ Gabrielle smirked and picked her silver hairbrush back up. _One last day of school before summer vacation starts, and only three more days until the Becoming… I don't know how I'll manage to sleep at all this week!_

A knock at her door forced her to derail her thoughts. "It's open," she called out.

Her mother entered wearing her perpetual expression of exasperation. "Gabrielle, good morning. I hope you slept well?"

Gabrielle nodded, "Yes, mother, I did."

"That's good. Your darling sister wanted to remind you that she would be leaving for Egypt the day after your Becoming, but that she would only be an owl away if you needed her advice on anything."

Gabrielle grimaced, "And why does she think I'll need _her_ advice? She didn't Become. Grandmother Arianna did, but I can't very well ask _her_, now can I? Not without a necromancer, at least."

Apolline narrowed her eyes a bit at her younger daughter's tone. "Though that may be true, there is no reason for you to be so vicious about this. You know how much dear Fleur hoped to Become."

"Why should she have _everything_? It's about time I got something she didn't."

"Gabrielle! You know your precious sister loves you dearly – I can't believe you would be so spiteful! Dearest Fleur has never asked anything of you but your love as her sister, and yet you seem to begrudge her even _that_ much."

Gabrielle huffed and finished brushing her hair. "Was there anything else you needed, Mother, or can I finish getting ready for school?"

Sniffing in her superior way, Apolline turned from Gabrielle and left the room.

_Finally,_ she thought, tying her long blonde hair back into a tail. _I thought she'd never leave me alone. Honestly, does she think I don't notice how she dotes on Fleur? 'Darling Fleur' this and 'Dear Fleur' that! It's not my fault I wasn't the boy she and Papa wanted! At least Papa doesn't try to hide how he feels. I may not be the son he wanted, but that didn't stop him from teaching me how to hunt or how to duel when I asked. _Glaring one last time at her hated reflection, Gabrielle hurriedly dressed in her school uniform. _I wish Mother would let me cut my hair. It's always in the way_. In truth, half of her hair had already escaped the tie and was tickling her face and neck. The blonde strands were too smooth and fine to stay in place unless she braided her hair so tightly it gave her a headache.

The last day of her sixth year of school went well, she only had two tests to finish before term ended; one in Warding Principles and Theory and the other in Defensive Strategies. Both were done shortly before lunchtime, and Gabrielle could have left the school and gone home if she wanted to, but she didn't really feel like dealing with her mother just then. Instead, she sat with her friend, Nicole, on the rim of a fountain in the courtyard of the school. Nicole was her exact opposite in coloring; where Gabrielle had platinum hair and skin the color of fresh milk, Nicole's Sicilian ancestry was quite apparent. Her hair was coarse, short and curly, and a red so dark and rich it appeared black unless backlit. Her eyes, as well, were a shade of liquid brown that brought to mind images of forest-shy deer. Nicole's skin sported a perpetual tan – something which Gabrielle was envious of, as she could only burn and peel and burn and peel in the sun – sprinkled with a smattering of freckles across her nose. Though Gabrielle's veela heritage would ensure that she would grow another twenty inches or so, Nicole would be lucky to add another inch; at the moment, the two friends were precisely the same height.

Despite their apparent opposition in looks, they were closer than friends. Gabrielle felt that Nicole was more of a sister to her than Fleur ever could be, and she knew that Nicole felt the same way. In a country that prized overt femininity in women, the two girls were outcasts, tomboys who would rather spend an evening fox hunting than dancing, who liked fishing more than sunbathing. "Are you nervous?" Nicole asked, idly toying with a summoned ball of light.

"No," Gabrielle replied. "I _was_, don't get me wrong, but lately I just want it _over_ with. I want to look my _age_ for once."

Nicole laughed a little, "You know your mother's going to drag you out to buy a whole new wardrobe, and you _know_ she won't let you get away with trousers, let alone jeans."

Gabrielle sighed, "I know. It sucks."

"I'll ask if Michel will give you some of the things he's outgrown." Michel was Nicole's older brother.

Gabrielle grinned at that, "And wouldn't that put a dent in Mummy-dearest's day?"

"You're going to have fun with this, aren't you?" Nicole knew her friend, and knew her well.

"You bet I will. I think she's been holding onto the misguided notion that once I Become, I'll suddenly change everything about myself and be her darling little doll."

"Hormones can do a _lot_," Nicole said thoughtfully, "but they can't change you _that_ entirely. I suppose it'll help that you already know who the lifebond wants, right?"

Gabrielle nodded, "It will. Grandmother Arianna's journal said that until she met Grandfather François the lifebond drove her to do all sorts of things she wouldn't have normally done."

"Like what?"

Gabrielle laughed, "Well, she said that this one time she was walking from a coffee shop to the Louvre and had to _sniff_ all the men she passed!"

Nicole grinned, "Really?"

"Really!" Nicole joined Gabrielle in giggling. Neither of them could picture the poised, late Arianna Delacour actually _sniffing_ random men. Once their giggles ran their course, Gabrielle stood up and began walking along the fountain pool's rim. "So… Nic, what are your plans for the summer?"

Nicole shrugged, "Hiding in the stables, mostly. Mother wants to throw a 'coming out' ball for my sixteenth. I don't know how I'm going to survive being paraded around in a ball gown all night."

Gabrielle winced in sympathy. "I hope my mother doesn't have similar plans." Suddenly a thought struck her, "Although… I think I have an idea."

Nicole's expression was hard to decipher. It seemed to be a blend of apprehension and eagerness. "What?"

"What if we were able to spend most of the summer away from here?"

"It sounds like a great dream, Gabs, but I don't see how that's going to happen."

"Well, your birthday is only two days after mine, so once that blasted ball is out of the way, you won't have to worry about it any more." Nicole nodded and motioned for Gabrielle to continue. "And, since Mother knows that I know who my lifebond is, even if I haven't told her _who_, she won't be expecting me to attend most of the balls."

"'A ball is a requirement for young ladies to allow the opportunity for young gentlemen to pay them court'," Nicole quoted her own mother, mimicking the overbearing tones precisely.

Snickering, Gabrielle nodded, "Exactly! So, that frees me up. Now, what I'll do is tell Mother that my lifebonded is English and I want to go there to explain the situation to him."

Comprehension suddenly dawned on Nicole's face. Her eyes widened in wonderment and she smiled broadly, "You don't speak English!"

"But _you_ do," Gabrielle replied, her expression echoing Nicole's.

Nicole forcefully made herself calm down somewhat. "What relatives do you have in England? I have an uncle who lives there, but he and Father aren't on speaking terms."

Gabrielle completed her circuit of the fountain and plopped down next to her best friend. "Hmm… I know we're distant cousins, on Mother's side, with the Malfoy family, but I don't want to stay with _them_. Their allegiance to the Light is constantly in question. I wouldn't put it past their reputation to try Chaînes de Sang."

Nicole shuddered, "That bad?"

"There is question as to whether they willingly follow England's Dark Lord."

"That bad." Nicole waved her hand dismissively, accidentally dispelling her ball of light. Growling a little at her own negligence, she re-summoned the ball and asked, "Who else?"

Gabrielle took a deep breath and thought. "The only other one I know for sure is the Prince line – first cousins on my father's side – but Eileen died about fifteen years ago. I don't know if she ever had children or not."

"It's worth looking into, otherwise we'll have to see if Michel will come with us."

"And he's not likely to want to. Isn't he still dating Danielle?"

Nicole nodded, "If I'm lucky, he'll ask her to marry him sometime this summer and distract Mother from me for a change."

"I'll check into it when I go home. All things being equal, I'd rather your brother _didn't_ come with us."

"That makes two of us. Why don't we go check?"

"What? Now?"

"I don't see that you have any more-pressing engagements for this afternoon."

"Touché. How are we going to avoid Mother?"

Nicole chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "I think we should stop by and see Madam Petit before we go to your house."

Gabrielle grinned, Esmée Petit was always good for wanting to talk with Madam Delacour. It didn't take long to convince Madam Petit that she was long overdue for a visit with Madam Delacour, nor for her to believe it was her own idea to visit her longtime friend. Once the two matrons were ensconced in an out-of-the way parlor, Gabrielle and Nicole hurried up to Apolline's study. The family records were in her desk, Gabrielle knew, and it shouldn't take long to find out if her father's cousin had ever had children.

As Gabrielle had expected, her mother's meticulous nature made it quite easy to first locate the documentation on her father's family tree and then to find that Eileen Prince had married Tobias Snape. Her son was listed as being thirty-seven and the current Potions Master of Hogwarts. Taking care to replace all the parchment scrolls back in their proper places, Gabrielle and Nicole headed for Gabrielle's room. "That was easier than I expected," Nicole commented, flopping onto the white velvet loveseat that faced Gabrielle's personal fireplace.

Gabrielle shrugged and sat at her own desk. "Mother is rather particular about the family records. Now," she pulled out a clean sheet of expensive vellum, "what do we say to him?"

Nicole shrugged, "Why not the plain truth?"

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Because I've no idea whether or not he even realizes we're related, let alone whether he and Papa get along."

Nicole sprang up from the loveseat and nudged Gabrielle on the shoulder, "Budge over, Gabs. Let me have a crack at this. I think I know what to say that won't reveal too much, but just might intrigue him enough to reply."

It took three drafts before Nicole was satisfied with what she'd written. Handing the final copy to Gabrielle, who had retreated to Nicole's previous location on the loveseat, Gabrielle read the letter and grinned. "I'll copy it over and send it this evening. How long before he replies?"

Nicole shrugged, "No idea, but I'd say no longer than a week at most."

"What if he decides not to?"

"Then we try something else. We're both smart enough to figure out how to get to England for the summer; we'll think of something."

Sighing and pulling out a fresh sheet of vellum, Gabrielle muttered, "I wish I had half your confidence."

"Oh, shut up and write," Nicole said, teasing apparent in her tone.

Gabrielle took quite some time to recopy the letter, making sure her calligraphy was perfect. She so wanted to make a good impression on her cousin. When she finished, she handed it to Nicole who read it quickly to make sure Gabrielle hadn't inadvertently skipped anything. "Looks good, Gabs. I'll go ahead and spell it for you." The spell Nicole placed on the parchment would do two things; firstly, it would make it so that the letter would reach its destination without suffering exposure to the elements, and the second portion would make the contents automatically translate to whichever language the reader was most comfortable using.

Later that night, Gabrielle stood in her dressing gown, watching as her owl winged its way northward into the night. Regardless of her earlier bout of pessimism, she couldn't help but feel that everything was going to turn out all right in the end. Now, all she needed to make her week even better would be a positive reply. The hope filling her even managed to obscure some of the combined nervousness and impatience regarding her Becoming.

The night before her sixteenth birthday was stressful. Gabrielle only really had her grandmother's journal and a small, obscure tome on the maturity of veela to guide her through the Becoming process. Both references stressed the importance of making sure she had plenty to eat as she would need all the energy she could muster to complete the process. However, at a quarter to midnight, Gabrielle felt as though she would vomit if she had to swallow another mouthful of _anything_, even water. Though both her parents and her sister wanted to be present to witness the Becoming, Gabrielle had put her foot down and locked them out of her room. She didn't want her family gawking at her, especially since she would be naked for most of the night. Fleur had always teased her about her body modesty, but Gabrielle didn't care. It was _her_ body, and she didn't like displaying it.

As the small clock on her mantle began chiming midnight, Gabrielle held her breath. Twelve chimes passed into silence before she let it out. _The books must be wrong,_ she thought just before a sudden, gut-wrenching pain blossomed in her bones. The suddenness quite took her breath away, and as such she was unable to do much more than gasp helplessly as her skeleton began growing, stretching her muscles and ligaments. She could hardly catch her breath, and a glimpse of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on her closet confirmed that her skin was acquiring a bluish tinge while her bones creaked and groaned and ground against one another.

Ever so slowly, the pain began to fade. Gabrielle took the chance to breathe in great gulps of air. The first stage of Becoming was done. She knew she had approximately two hours before the second stage would begin, and so she carefully got to her feet. The difference in her height was _very_ obvious. When she had awoken that morning at a scant four feet, seven inches, she was now at least a foot taller, if not a shade more. Walking to the mirrors was a chore. Not only was she exhausted from the sudden growth, but she had to pay far too much attention to the actual process of walking. She felt clumsy, something she hadn't had to deal with since her ninth birthday halted her physical development.

Examining her reflection, she noticed that she still looked like a little girl, albeit one who had been queerly stretched. Her limbs were stick-thin, and her bones were easily seen at her ribs, collar, spine, and hips. A slight puff of breeze from her open window whispered across her skin and she couldn't help shivering, though the room had been pleasantly warm before the night's event began. She pulled a couple of blankets off her bed and wrapped herself in them, sitting on the loveseat. She was disgusted with how weak she felt. She was also ravenous. Calling for her house elf, Gabrielle ordered some hot coffee and a tray of éclairs. _No wonder the books said to eat as much as possible. _She thought, biting into her snack.

She quickly finished the coffee and éclairs, and curled up under her blankets to take a quick nap. She knew she'd awaken when the second stage began.

Her dreams were filled with confusing images of a blonde boy and Nicole, a man with eyes as black as his hair, and of a large castle, hidden in a mountain valley. Slowly, the gray granite walls of the castle morphed into visions of flames. _So hot,_ she thought, springing to a sitting position and fully awake, her dreams shattered and forgotten for the moment. _So hot, so hot,_ she kicked the blankets off of her and hurried across her bedroom to the open windows. _Too hot,_ she thought again, opening all the windows as far as they would go. Her skin was definitely no longer bluish, but a high pink, hot to the touch, and covered in a slick sheen of sweat. She felt queasy, and the slight breeze that had sent her shivering mere hours earlier was doing nothing to cool her down. A low burning itch began in her pelvis and spiked up through her chest. Intellectually, she knew this was just the result of hormones suddenly maturing her reproductive organs, widening her hips somewhat and otherwise wrecking havoc on her body. It didn't help with the sheer misery she was feeling. If she hadn't felt so hot, so queasy, so _miserable_, she might have had the presence of mind to retire into her bathroom and run a cold tub to cool down. As it was, she hadn't the energy to even think of doing so.

She lay down on the cool marble floor, pressing her overheated skin into the stone and prayed that this stage would pass quickly. She suddenly understood why Fleur was so bitchy once a month; if her sister felt even a _fraction_ of this misery each month, she was entitled to be bitchy.

What felt like hours, but in reality was only about twenty minutes, passed with Gabrielle wishing she had been born to a normal, _completely_ _human_ lineage. Once the heat began to fade from her body, she slowly rose to her hands and knees. Not having the strength or presence of mind to walk, she crawled over to the mirrors to see what changes the second stage of Becoming had on her body.

She still had a stretched, underfed, skeletal form, but now she was definitely more womanly than girly in her figure. She knew from reading her grandmother's journal that the skeletal quality would go away after a couple of days of rich foods. She was a little disappointed that her figure wasn't much in comparison to Fleur's. Her breasts were small – hardly a handful for her future lifebonded. Her hips weren't all that wide or round, but both were enough to make people realize she was no longer a child. She was a little amused to see that her pubic hair was just as white, just as fine as the hair on her head.

Her house elf appeared without Gabrielle having to call for her. "Miss needs to eat," she said, setting a silver tray beside Gabrielle.

"Thank you, Darla. Would you stay with me?" Gabrielle removed the cover of the tray and found a full plate of all her favorite foods – none of which would qualify as 'high class' _or_ 'French'. There was a single-serving size pepperoni pizza, two hamburgers from an American fast-food restaurant in the muggle section of the city, and a box of jelly donuts. There was also a six-pack of Coca-Cola and a bag of Hershey's Kisses. She looked up at her elf and grinned, "You're a lifesaver, you know that?" She seized the bag of chocolate and alternated Kisses with bites of burger, interspaced with the soda.

"What is Miss needing?" Darla asked, her hands holding tightly to the edge of her drape wrapping.

"Just some company, Darla," Gabrielle replied, licking pizza sauce off her hand. "Was there any mail for me today?"

Darla shook her head, her eyes – which were almost as blue as those of her Miss – wide. "No, Miss. Are yous waiting for a letter?"

Gabrielle smiled around a mouthful of burger. "Yes, I am. It will be from Papa's cousin at Hogwarts."

"Darla will make sure yous gets it when it comes."

Gabrielle would have nodded, but at that moment she was too busy draining the can of cola. When she finished it off, she popped the tab on a second and belched loudly. It made Darla giggle. Gabrielle, too, for that matter. Unwrapping the second burger, she asked, "So… How are you and Jean doing?" Jean was the house elf of one of her neighbors. Gabrielle and Jean's owner had both agreed that the elves could court one another.

The elf took on a bluish hue – a house elf blush – and smiled brightly. "Jean is very nice to Darla. He gaves me this drape."

Gabrielle smiled indulgently at her elf. "And it's so pretty, too. Want me to show you how to tie it a little better, Darla? So it won't come off accidentally?" Currently, it was tied rather loosely in toga fashion.

The elf's eyes grew even larger, "Would Miss? Darla would be oh-so-happy!"

"Get me the scissors from my desk and come here, honey." Gabrielle quickly finished off the second can of soda and the last of the pizza before the elf returned to her side. "Take it off and watch, so you know how to do this if you get any other drapes from your young man."

Darla's eyes, brimming with tears of joy, carefully observed Gabrielle as she cut a strip off the side of the pristine white lace drape. For the curious, Darla wore strips of white linen torn from an old bed sheet as undergarments. One strip was wrapped around her chest, and the other was used as a short loincloth. After Gabrielle had cut the strip off the side, she trimmed a semicircular piece out of the top of the drape and from the sides, leaving the rest of the drape in a roughly apron shape. Gabrielle beckoned to Darla and stuck another Kiss in her mouth. Talking around the melting chocolate, she told her elf how to tie the drape so it wouldn't fall off. "Start like this, with these longer ends around your waist," she wrapped the drape as she spoke, "and tie it with this long piece I first cut off. Then take these two pieces and cross them over your shoulders and around your back, tying them in front, like this." The drape no longer resembled a toga but a sleeveless sarong. "Once it's all tied tightly – but not so tight it makes it hard to breathe – you can take the pieces I cut from the sides and tuck them into the belt-strip like this," Gabrielle tucked the scraps of lace in so they made a ruffle around her elf's waist. "See?" she gestured to the mirror. "You look so pretty, Darla." Grinning as she finished off her last burger, she further said, "Your young man won't be able to resist you."

Examining her reflection in the mirror, Darla couldn't help herself. She hugged her Miss as hard as she could, "Thank you, Miss! Darla looks so much better! Yous is the bestest Miss ever!"

Laughing a little, she patted Darla's long, green hair. "I think I'm full, Darla, and the last bit of my Becoming should start any moment. I don't think you should be here for that."

Nodding, Darla picked up the tray and snapped out of the room. Gabrielle stretched out on her loveseat, slightly surprised when she had to hang her legs over the arm. _I don't think I'll ever get used to being taller_. Feeling somewhat content, she tucked one arm behind her head and draped the other over her eyes. _I hope Papa's cousin writes back soon, and that he says we can visit. If he doesn't let us, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe I'll just take off on my own and kidnap Nicole to go with me._

A rippling sensation along her spine broke off her train of thought. It wasn't painful or unpleasant, merely odd. Taking a deep breath, Gabrielle stood and walked over to the mirrors gracing her closet. Without any more warning than the singular ripple, Gabrielle suddenly felt an unknown, unnamable anger surge up within her. Rage unlike anything she had ever before felt seeped into her heart and drenched her brain. With a primal scream that made the glass in the windows and mirrors shiver, but not break, her form melted to reflect her inner wrath. Wings sprouted from her shoulder blades, talons erupted from her fingers and toes; her feet actually shifted into birdlike claws while her face stretched and sprouted a wicked, toothed raptor's beak. Her crystalline blue eyes dimmed until she could almost see the fire of her fury burning deep within.

As quickly as it seized her, the rage ebbed and dissipated, leaving her leaning forward on the mirrors, trying desperately to catch her breath. Her hands, face, eyes, and feet all returned to their normal state, but her wings remained, though they were no longer the bat-like structures they had been moments earlier, but more birdlike and covered in downy soft, pale feathers that were the precise same shade of blonde as her hair. Curious, she stretched them out to their full span, which was approximately three times wider than she was tall. Closing her eyes, she followed her grandmother's journal's advice and _willed_ the wings to go away. The earlier rippling sensation in her back returned for a moment. When it quit, she twisted and looked at her back in the mirror. She now had a faint outline of feathery wings on either side of her spine. The marks looked like a tattoo, but were only half a shade darker than her skin. If she hadn't known what to look for, she doubted she would have been able to tell they were there.

Suddenly exhausted, Gabrielle dragged herself to her bed and climbed under the sheet. _Finally,_ she thought as sleep claimed her. _I have Become._

* * *

**A/N2:** The term 'lifebonded' is borrowed from Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series. I prefer it to 'soul mate' or, in the case of veela fics, 'mate'.

I don't normally do this, but I feel compelled to respond to the anonymous reviewer who said this was 'contrived' and insinuated that muggle technology had absolutely no place in the Harry Potter fandom - if you don't like it, don't read it! This is FANfiction. If you want canon, go read the books. I indicated in my A/N of the first post (prologue) that this was AU; the type of AU is glaringly apparent from that first, short chapter. In fact, I even made sure to hint (and it wasn't even oblique) at the type of AU this is in my summary of the story (or did you not understand what was meant by "a muggle contraption from a parallel universe"?) Your whining 'review' only makes you look like a fool. Doubly so, as it adds to the number of reviews posted (which I know is a factor for a lot of people when deciding what to read). I would have been happy to respond to the review itself, and thus keep this out of the public eye, but since the reviewer didn't sign in, this was my only option.

My apologies to everyone for taking up valuable space.

Kind thanks to everyone who have reviewed - even 'anonymous' from the rant above (I'll appreciate the higher numbers if nothing else!) - and to everyone who simply lurks without reviewing, I keep track of my hit-counters, too, so I still know you're out there. Thanks everyone, be ye reviewer or reader.

Edit 07/31/2012: Caught a typo. Its head is now hanging above my floo.


	4. Voices from a Distant Land

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** I know I said this would be up tomorrow or the day after, but I figured I had it written, so I might as well post it. Happy reading!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Three: Voices from a Distant Land  
_

Harry was more than a little grateful for Ragnok's gift of the vial of potion. Keying himself to his new vaults hadn't taken all that long, nor had visiting his personal vault. The black backpack that had been sitting on the pile of gold, silver, and bronze coins, however, was taking quite some time to go through. While he was still in the vault, he filled a pouch with money, though he wasn't sure why other than he only had a couple of galleons left in his trunk at Hogwarts. The backpack had a sticky note not unlike the one that had arrived with the palmtop computer, though the note on the backpack looked decidedly singed. With dawn shining brightly, Harry quickly concluded his business at Gringotts and walked to a nearby park to go through the latest shipment from Lily.

Inside the backpack, Harry had found a lengthy scroll in what he was fast coming to recognize as his mother…_ No, damn it, Harry. It's LILY, not your mum._ As, well, _her_ handwriting that detailed the charms built into the bag. The list was extensive, and Harry promised himself to go over it in more detail later. For the time-being, though, his attention was focused on one of the gadgets that Lily and Harvey had sent. It looked a lot like a digital watch, but had a tag tied to the band with a dragon-shaped earring tacked to it. The back of the card told him he could find a discreet body-art shop at the entrance to Knockturn Alley and that there was more information on the gizmo in Harry's palmtop computer. Digging the computer out of his pocket, Harry researched the device and found that it was a cross-dimensional two-way radio.

It didn't take more than twenty minutes to locate the body-art shop. If the clerk had been surprised to see Harry there, he hadn't shown it. Three galleons and five minutes later, Harry had the dragon earring dangling from his left earlobe. He removed his old watch and tossed it in a rubbish bin. It had quit working properly during the second task of the Tri-Wizard tournament over a year before; the second hand uselessly ticked back and forth over the two, even though the hour and minute hands still functioned. He had been wearing as a reminder to get it replaced. He tightened the band of his new watch into place. The dial glowed blue for a moment, then flashed red twice before settling into the normal black-on-gray display that was normal for a digital. Consulting the owner's manual in his computer once more, he followed the complicated button-pressing-pattern to activate the watch. The dial flashed yellow once, indicating he had done so correctly.

While he was checking through the numerous pockets in his backpack, there was a low chiming noise from his earring. He tapped the 'mode' button of the watch three times in quick succession, like the manual had said, to answer the call. "Yeah?" he whispered softly.

He was rewarded with a somewhat static-garbled version of his mo – of _Lily's_ voice. "Harry, I assume you received our latest little care package?"

"I did," Harry replied. "I had some questions, though."

Lily laughed, and something tightened in Harry's chest. "Of course you do. You wouldn't be human if you didn't. What do you want to know? If I know the answers, I'll tell you."

Harry took a deep breath, suddenly unsure where to start. He randomly picked a question. "What exactly _is_ the 'Department for the Regulation and Control of Interdimensional Threats'? What do you do? How is it I'm talking to you? What's this about different universes? I thought there was only the one. Why do you seem to be helping me? How do I know you're who you say you are and really not working for Voldemort? What's with all these things you keep sending me? Why are you sending them to me?" Once he started, the questions flowed and he couldn't have stopped them if he'd tried.

He trailed off when Lily's laughter returned. "Oh, Harry! Slow down, and let me see if I can clarify things, all right?"

"Okay," Harry replied, ignoring the curious glance of an elderly woman out walking her poodle. _This sitting around and seemingly talking to thin air isn't going to clear up that whole 'the wizarding world thinks I'm barmy' issue._

"Firstly, there are other realities than the one you live in. Every story you've ever read is, in fact, another world, another universe, and under normal circumstances, the only way these worlds and realities interact is through creative media – books, television, films, art, and so on. Still other realities are created with every moment, with each major choice humankind makes, reality tears itself and reforms. For example, if you were to make the choice to stand up and start blasting holes in everything, a reality would form following the path that resulted from that choice, and a second reality would form where you continued sitting right where you are and listening to me. With me so far?"

"Yes, though I'm not sure if I really understand it."

"Then just accept it as a particularly peculiar form of magic. Not many people are capable of understanding the concept. Secondly, I can tell you with certainty that I am most definitely _not_ working for Voldemort. My department monitors potential threats to our own universe through interdimensional tracking magic – something that appears to be unique to this universe. The reason we're so interested in helping you is because we know you're the one prophesied to either kill or be killed by Voldemort. Should you fail, our computer simulations predict that there's an eighty-nine percent chance that he will figure out how to cross dimensional barriers and begin an interdimensional campaign of slaughter and terror."

Harry's mind had been set at ease the first time Lily had referred to the Dark Lord by name. He still wasn't sure if this was all just a figment of his imagination and he was currently bound in a padded room at St. Mungo's, but for the moment he was willing to believe what his senses were telling him. Lily, taking Harry's silence as confirmation that he was following her explanation, continued, "We – my department – are able to send non-living magical objects through the barriers between our dimension and those which border us. It's sort of like boring a hole through pages of a book. The spells and the technology they drive are far from perfect, though, so there's always a chance that what we try to send either won't arrive or will arrive damaged. We hope to be able to send living matter sometime in the next five years. This particular brand of magic is how we are able to speak with you and send you the magical objects you've received so far. We send you these things in hopes that they will aid your quest to destroy Voldemort."

"Okay," Harry said when his mum – when _Lily_ – paused. "I don't think I'll ever truly understand it, but I think I can trust you. I did some research earlier and found that I had three spells set to me, and was able to get rid of two of them, but I don't know what to do about the third. All the people I'd normally ask for help you told me not to trust."

"What were the spells?" Lily asked, curiosity apparent in her voice.

"A tracking charm on my hair – I transferred it to a shoelace rather than break it – and something called a 'core block' were the two I could deal with." Harry had to pause as Lily cursed Dumbledore's ancestry to the nth generation. "Um… Mu… uh, Lily?"

It took a moment for Lily to calm down. "Sorry, Harry. The core block was outlawed in this dimension over a millennia ago. It's a nasty bit of work. You said you dealt with it already?"

"Yeah, I found information on it in one of the books you put in the computer. Hurt something fierce when I got rid of it, but afterwards I found out I could fly my broom at over three hundred kilometers an hour."

Lily let out a low whistle, "That must have been _some_ block…"

Ignoring her unvoiced urging to extrapolate on the spell, Harry turned the subject back to the obliviate lurking in his mind. "The third spell I found isn't one I can remove."

"Why is that?"

"It's an obliviate, but I don't understand it."

"The obliviate spell is a memory charm. It blocks a memory or series of memories from being able to be recalled by the person it's cast on," Lily explained.

Harry rolled his eyes, he felt like he was talking with Hermione. "I know _that_. What I don't understand is that my exibeo magus charm said that this particular obliviate was blocking more than _fifty_ _years_ worth of memories. How is that possible? I'm only _fifteen_."

"Hmm…" Lily's tone was thoughtful. "To be honest, Harry, I don't know. I'll look into possibilities for you and let you know what I find. Did you have any other questions for me right now?"

"Yeah, but I don't know how to word them. When can I talk to you again?"

"I'll call you again at… oh, say eight o'clock tomorrow night. That should give you plenty of time to sleep and whatnot."

"Should I be worried that you know I've not been to bed yet?"

"Not at all, Harry. We – the department – were monitoring your activity at your Ministry last night, and I know you haven't had time for sleep, since you obviously went to Gringotts and are now speaking with me."

"Oh," was Harry's less-than-spectacular reply. "I suppose I'll talk to you later, then?"

"Tomorrow evening. Promise."

The earring made a slightly different chiming noise and Harry could no longer hear Lily's end of the connection. Sighing, he replaced the few items he had removed from the backpack back in their respective pockets, tucked the palmtop into an empty pocket that was just its size, and pulled the straps over his shoulders. He swirled his cloak over everything and took off on his Firebolt for Hogwarts.

The return trip didn't seem to take long, but Harry did have a fair amount on his mind. Forcibly shoving his thoughts aside, Harry approached the school making sure to keep the headmaster's quarters facing away from him – he hadn't forgotten that the old man could see through his invisibility cloak. Once he arrived over Hogwarts grounds, he flew within an arm's reach of the school up to the fifth-year boy's dormitory. Peeking through the windows, he saw that Seamus, Dean, and Neville were still slumbering peacefully. Probably a little _too_ peacefully in Seamus' case, if the way he was kneading his pillow and the way his sheet stretched over his hips was any indication. Quietly, just in case his charm had worn off, Harry opened the window and crawled inside. He hid his new backpack in the bottom of his trunk, covering it with his cloak, and replaced his broom in its customary spot just under his bed. He removed the shoelace with the tracking charm from the trainer in question before chucking the shoes in a rubbish bin and tying the charm around his ankle. He still had two weeks of school to finish, and it wouldn't do to have the headmaster notice he had discovered and tampered with the charm.

Once he'd changed into his pajamas, he turned back the covers on his bed and had just enough time to simultaneously pull the blankets over himself and think _Ragnok was right about that potion_, before sleep ambushed him.

While Harry slept on in his room, Severus Snape was pondering a surprise letter from his mother's cousin's youngest daughter. Aside from a brief, somewhat stilted and unpleasant meal with Apolline and François Delacour during the previous year's Tri-Wizard fiasco, he'd not spoken with his only remaining relatives before or since. François' mother and Snape's maternal grandmother had been sisters, and how François had managed to marry into a veela line was anybody's guess. He reread the letter yet again.

_16 June, 1996  
Bonjour Monsieur Snape,_

_My name is Gabrielle Delacour; I am François_ _and Apolline's youngest daughter. You may recall that my older sister, Fleur, was Beauxbatons' Champion for the Tri-Wizard Tournament last year. You may further recall that I was her hostage for the second task – yes, the little girl is me. However, appearances can, at times, be quite deceiving._

_I know that your mother and my father were cousins, and we remain the last of our respective lines for the time being. I further know that you are not close to my family, though I would like to correct that. Family should stick together, don't you think?_

_To put this quite plainly, I shall be blunt. On my mother's side of the family, veela are quite prominent. Because of that, I have active veela traits (rather, I will after my sixteenth birthday on the nineteenth). If you are aware of the ramifications of this, you will know that veela are subject to what is known as a lifebond – a 'mate' of sorts. Thanks to my eventful visit to Hogwarts last year, I know who my lifebond is – and no, it isn't you. I doubt the veela traits would select someone of such close relation unless we were the only magical beings left on planet Earth. My problem is that my lifebonded is an English wizard and my parents won't allow me to visit him without an adult chaperone and they are going to be quite busy this summer. Personally, I don't believe they trust me all that much._

_I would like to know if you would give me your permission to stay with you for at least a couple of weeks over the summer, along with my friend, Nicole – I don't speak English, and would need someone to serve as an interpreter until I learn the language – so that I may speak with my lifebonded and explain the situation to him._

_I would be willing to compensate you for your time, of course. I realize that the position you hold at Hogwarts is likely one that takes much of your time, and I wouldn't feel right taking more of that time than absolutely necessary._

_Please reply at your earliest convenience._

_Merci pour votre temps,  
Gabrielle Delacour_

Severus knew what the letter didn't mention, of course. He knew that a veela – or even a partial veela who had active veela traits – who knew who their mate was and didn't act on that knowledge would rapidly degenerate into their rather frightening harpy form. In truth, harpies all originated in veela who denied their lifebond. He didn't know if he would be able to host his cousin and her friend though; he needed to speak with the headmaster. _There are far too many harpies in the world already. I only hope whichever fool wizard she's bound to knows what he's getting into._ If he were unable to personally host Gabrielle and Nicole – _Merlin knows the place at Spinner's End is barely habitable for _me_, let alone two teenage girls_ – Snape hoped that Dumbledore would have an alternate plan for them.

Severus folded the letter and tucked into a pocket. Leaving his quarters, he began the long trek up to the headmaster's tower; the letter had arrived after the normal breakfast delivery run and so a house elf had brought it to him. As luck would have it, Severus didn't have to go all the way up to Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was in the entrance hall speaking with a portrait of a woman in a green Victorian traveling suit. Severus cleared his throat to announce his presence. Albus turned in his direction and smiled, "Ah, Severus. Just who I was hoping to see."

Severus managed to refrain from rolling his eyes, but only just. "Headmaster. I've received a letter I wish to discuss with you."

"Come then, Severus. Let's to my office and we can both go over what we need to say."

Severus could tell that Albus was going to ask him to do something he really didn't want to do, but he further knew that there was no getting out of it. Regardless of his arguments, the headmaster always knew precisely what to say to get the Head of Slytherin to do his bidding. It irked him to no end, but he didn't know what to do to fix the situation. He did, after all, owe Dumbledore his freedom, if not his life. It had been on Dumbledore's word alone that he had not been sentenced to Azkaban with the others who bore the Dark Mark.

On the way up to the headmaster's tower, Severus reflected that Lady Luck wasn't as with him as he had first assumed. When they'd finally settled themselves into Albus' office, and the customary offers of tea and sweets had been made and turned down, Severus handed Albus the letter from Gabrielle. The headmaster read the letter quickly before handing it back to Severus. "I had wondered why she seemed so young for her age," was his only comment.

"How should I reply, Albus? I honestly don't think the world needs another harpy on its hands, but I doubt that I will go the whole of her visit without a summons."

"Ah, yes… Quite the conundrum, isn't it, Severus?"

Severus merely stared at the headmaster.

"Hmm… Ah, yes, of course! Why don't you go ahead and let her know she and her friend may visit, but warn her that her assumption of your time is quite accurate. That should cover any times you will need to leave them to their own devices."

"And where will we be staying, sir? Spinner's End is… Well, it may be my home, but that doesn't mean I want _or_ need two curious teens rummaging about in my things."

Albus chuckled, "I think your concern is more that they will find your odd collection of books and dust to be a disappointment. Don't worry, Severus. I doubt they will ever learn the state of your home's book infestation."

"What are you getting at, you meddling old coot?"

Still chuckling a little, Albus handed Severus a small bronze key, somewhat larger than those used for Gringotts vaults. "Simply that I would rather you stayed at a different house this summer."

Knowing that it couldn't be that simple, Severus narrowed his eyes and glared at the key. "Who else will I be babysitting, sir?"

"Ah… Well, Severus, I was hoping you would consent to doing me a great favor."

"Albus?" a sinking sensation gripped Severus' stomach.

"You see, one of the students' family has had something of an emergency come up –"

"Albus." The sensation grew a little stronger.

"– and will not be home until the thirtieth of July, therefore the student will be in need of –"

"_Albus_." Severus was now positive he knew who else he was expected to look after that summer.

"– your expertise and unique insights."

Severus seized Albus' pause for breath to break into the conversation, "No! Absolutely not! I'm _not_ babysitting Potter!"

Albus' twinkling smile faded and a disappointed frown surfaced. It was the same expression used worldwide by parents who had cause to show disappointment to an erring child. "Oh, Severus, why can't you at least _try_ to set aside your hatred of James? Harry may look like his father, but if you could just see past that surface, you might find that he isn't who you think he is."

Severus wasn't able to restrain the growl of irritation that surfaced. He'd heard the exact same thing from the headmaster ever since the Potter boy had started his first year. "Severus, you know how important Harry is to us. We will need him."

"I don't understand why you haven't implemented your plan for him yet."

"The time has not been right, Severus. Until it is, he needs to be kept safe at all costs."

Severus still didn't want to end up babysitting the brat, even if it was for only part of the summer. Something of his stubbornness must have shown on his face because Albus sighed and reached for the key he'd sat on the far edge of his desk. He paused before picking it up and looked Severus in the eye.

"Duco juramentum."

The two words Albus said washed over and into Severus, and without knowing or even fully remembering quite what happened, he agreed to watch over Potter until the boy's relatives returned in July. He didn't realize any time was missing, however. His mind created what he expected to remember, and he didn't recall the spell the headmaster had used in any way, shape, or form. On his way back to his quarters, Severus' thoughts sped off into a tangent. _Damn old man. How can he always manage to talk me into these things? It's not bloody fair, damn it. I should be free to say 'no' every now and again, but the blasted old coot always has the last word whenever Potter comes up in conversation. At least there's one good thing that will come of this – well, two actually. Firstly, there won't be another harpy added to the world, and secondly, I'll get to watch Potter fall all over himself trying to impress a bonded veela. _He smiled grimly._ Maybe if I'm lucky, he'll do something to make her angry, and she'll do the world a favor and maul him._

Once he'd returned to his quarters, he scrawled a reply to his cousin and had a house elf take it to the owlery for him before disappearing into his laboratory. The Dark Lord had demanded a potion that was best described as a liquid imperius. Severus knew that it was theoretically possible, but was having difficulty in getting the final result he was aiming for. In making potions for the Dark Lord, he always began with creating precisely what the Dark Lord wanted, and then worked backwards from there to sabotage it. With this particular potion, once he had the true form completed, he was going to alter it so that it was either easily detectable and easily cleared from the system of its victims, or that it had a set time limit of only a few hours. Personally, he felt the former option would be easiest and more than enough to dissuade the Dark Lord from trying to use it.

Just about the only potions he didn't alter for the Dark Lord were the basics; the ones that were easily ordered from an apothecary, like Pepper-up, Skele-Gro, and the other healing potions. He also didn't alter veritaserum when the Dark Lord ordered it. That particular potion was tricky as hell to brew, highly explosive and dangerous, and any substitutions in the ingredients would immediately be noticeable as they would alter the potion's coloration.

* * *

**A/N2: You can skip this paragraph if you wish, it has little to do with the actual story. **My 'anonymous' reviewer is still reading. If they dislike what I've written enough to 'scold' me regarding the 'rules' of the HP universe, why, then, are they still reading _and_ reviewing? They also seem to have missed the fact that the version of Lily that I am using is _not_ Harry's mother, but from a different universe altogether - the version of Lily in this story never _dated_ James Potter, let alone married him! Specifically, they ask "Why his mom in particular and why should anybody [help Harry]?" I thought I made it clear in the prologue. Hmm... Let me check... Ah! Here it is: "Like I said, I'm Lily Evans. I am a technomage working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Interdimensional Threats – it's a sub-unit of the Department of Mysteries of the Ministry of Magic. Simply put, I'm an Unspeakable...Situated as our universes are in the fabric of space-time, we – that is, my department – have studied your world extensively." Lily is doing her job. Nothing more, and nothing less. The conversation between Lily and Harry in this chapter clarifies it a little more: Lily is protecting her own dimension from the potential threat of Voldemort. As to specifically why her and not, for example, her partner - well, it certainly got Harry's attention, didn't it? 'Anonymous' has also stated "Now about the muggle contraption. It serves no purpose in the story because its function could also be done through some enchanted object which the map or riddle's diary showed." Um, you couldn't be more wrong. Nowhere in canon does it show how a person could carry an entire library's worth of information around in their pocket. The map shows only Hogwarts; it does not provide information. Riddle's diary was an entrapped 'memory' of the man at the age of sixteen and _not_ a repository of data. Keep in mind that the 'rules' which you seem so enamored of, 'Anonymous', clearly state that witches and wizards cannot use magic outside of school until they are seventeen, so it's not like Harry can use shrinking charms to pack his trunk full of books without taking this story in directions I do not wish it to go. Is Harry's computer a plot-device? Of course it is! But it is no different than Rowling using Hermione or Dumbledore as her favored dispenser-of-information. The only difference between the two is that I'm honest about it; what is a computer, other than a repository of data retrievable on command? Or is it simply the form which I have chosen that offends you so? Would you be this upset about it if I had used a 'master book' - some sort of mythical publication which changes its contents based on the requests of its owner? If that is the case, then why be so adamant about the form I have chosen? 'Anonymous', I do not feel that your opinions make you look 'stupid', merely foolish. If you so despise AU stories, why do you persist in reading them? How is my use of the computer as a plot-device any different than the plethora of stories in which the plot-device is a mangled spell or potion that de-ages the main character or sends them back in time? You seem to keep forgetting that this is FANfiction. As a result, I make no money from these stories. If you want to dictate what plot-devices are allowable and which canon details to adhere to or ignore, then go write your own!

Once again, I apologize to everyone for taking up space with this, but 'Anonymous' is too cowardly to leave _signed_ reviews in order to keep these replies out of the public eye. Thanks to everyone who seems to be enjoying this story, whether or not they review. Oh, and if anyone has any bits of muggle technology they'd like to see introduced to the story, feel free to let me know, same as if you've got any little details you wouldn't mind seeing. Of course, I reserve the right to _not_ use these ideas, but I do enjoy hearing speculation.


	5. Surprise, Surprise

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Happy Independence Day to all my fellow USers.

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Four: Surprise, Surprise  
_

Harry was awakened by a hand on his shoulder after what felt to him to have been only moments of blessedly dreamless sleep. Blearily opening his eyes, he saw that Neville was the one who was trying to wake him. "Huh?"

Neville handed Harry his glasses and sat on the edge of his bed. "You've been sleeping all day, Harry. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Harry slipped his glasses onto his face and sat up, yawning. "Yeah… I'm okay. I didn't get to sleep until this morning. Your nose all right?"

Neville nodded, "Yeah. Madam Pomfrey had it fixed in a pinch."

Harry yawned again. The events at the Ministry felt like they'd happened in another lifetime; so much had changed in the few hours since then. "That's good. What time is it?"

"Almost six in the evening. You got a letter with the morning mail," Neville said, handing a plain, white envelope to Harry.

Shaking his head a little to clear the last cobwebs of sleep from it, Harry looked suspiciously at the muggle envelope. Recognizing the handwriting on it, Harry groaned and wished he were still asleep. "Harry?" Neville asked, his hand still holding out the letter. "You sure you're okay?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah. It's just…" he sighed. "Never mind, Neville." He took the letter and opened it. A single piece of notebook paper was folded inside.

_17 June, 1996  
Potter,_

_Vernon has won a trip to Fiji through his work. We've told your headmaster to find other lodgings for you until we return._

_- Petunia Dursley_

Reading the short note three times, it still made no sense to Harry. He beckoned to Neville to go ahead and read it, "Does this say what I think it does?"

Neville read it over and shrugged, "I don't know. What do you think it says?"

"That my aunt, uncle, and cousin were going on vacation without me."

Neville nodded, "Then that's what it says. Where do you think you'll be staying until they come back?"

The only place Harry could think of was the one and only location that he wanted to go _less_ than the Dursleys' home. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Sirius' childhood home and his prison. Thinking of his godfather sent a peculiar twist through his chest. "I don't know, Neville."

Sensing Harry's sudden downswing in mood, Neville smiled brightly, "Maybe Gran will let you come and visit with me for a while, or you'll get to stay with Ron. How long do you think your relatives will be gone?"

"I don't know, they didn't say." Until Harry could figure out what Dumbledore had done to Ron, he doubted he wanted to stay with the redhead.

Neville's forehead wrinkled a little, he'd assumed that Harry had received other notes from his family and that this one was just to tell him that they'd told Dumbledore about the situation. Resolving to talk to Ron and Hermione when they got out of the hospital wing, Neville changed the subject. "I wonder what we'll be doing in classes this week, now that OWLs are over and all."

Harry shrugged, listening with only half an ear to Neville's chatter. _They couldn't even tell me how long they were going to be gone… Why did they bother telling Dumbledore? Was Mrs. Figg busy this summer? I'd rather spend the time at her place than have to go back to… No. Harry, stop it. It's just a house, no matter how gloomy and depressing or how much it reminds you of… Christmastime. It's just a house._

"…get an earring?"

Harry returned his attention to Neville, "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said, 'Since when did you get an earring?'"

Harry smiled a little, grateful for the first time in his life for one of the bits of bullying Dudley had done to him. "It's always been pierced – my cousin did it with a safety-pin when we were in primary school," which Dudley had done, when he'd learned from Vernon that 'only faggots wore earrings' after Dudley had demanded a piercing; the safety-pin had left him with a small, round scar right were a piercing would normally go, and the clerk at the body-art shop had just repierced the lobe in the same place, though the clerk, as was customary with wizarding tattoos and piercings, had healed it immediately. "I've just never worn one here before."

"Oh," Neville replied. "Why not?"

"I wasn't sure if the dress-code would let me at first, and then I just got out of the habit," a little surprised at himself for how easy the lies were coming to him, Harry was forced to remember how the Sorting Hat had wanted him in Slytherin.

"Why now?"

Harry shrugged, "I just wanted to see if it had grown closed on me." Swinging his legs out from under the blankets, Harry located his slippers. "I think I'll go find the shower, Neville. Talk with you later, yeah?"

"Sure," Neville said, watching his friend walk away. _He's hiding something,_ he thought. _And it has to be _big_ for me to have noticed it. I wonder what it could be, though?_

Even though he'd showered the night before, he did so again. He never did feel wholly awake without a shower. Once he was dressed, Harry headed down to the kitchens, beyond caring if Filch or Snape caught him – at this point, what was one more detention in the grand scheme of things? Dobby, at least, was glad to see him, even if the elf's particular brand of enthusiasm had a tendency to grate on Harry's nerves. Harry was finishing up some of the leftovers from the students' dinner – shepherd's pie and treacle tart – when his relative peace was interrupted. "Mr. Potter."

Harry slowly looked up, over the rims of his glasses. Contrary to popular belief, Harry was not nearsighted. He was primarily farsighted, but the reason he wore glasses for more than just reading was because of the astigmatism in his eyes. Hence, when he looked towards the portrait portal, he saw a clear image of his Potions professor, surrounded by a warped-looking doorframe – even though the doorframe wasn't, in reality, as twisted as it appeared. Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he sat his fork on his mostly-empty plate before standing. Snape was scowling at him. "What's this?" he sneered. "Too good to eat with the rest of the school?"

Harry clenched his jaw, repeating, _Don't get angry, that's what he wants,_ over and over in his head. "No," he ground out "sir."

The corners of Snape's mouth quirked inwards, though even the headmaster couldn't have called it a smile. "So why are you lurking in the kitchens, Potter? Last time I checked, this area was out-of-bounds to students."

Still speaking through clenched teeth, Harry's tone remained somewhat forced and robotic. "Sorry, sir. I was just leaving." He had yet to look from Snape's eyes. _Don't get angry, don't get upset. It doesn't matter that he's a prick who helped contribute to Sirius' death. Don't get angry. Don't let him get to you._

Snape smirked, "You know what I think, Potter?"

Harry shook his head minutely. "No, sir. _I_ don't go poking about in people's private thoughts, so I couldn't _possibly_ know what you think." He took a couple of stiff steps in the direction of going around the table to reach the door even as a muscle in his cheek started to twitch from the strain.

A cold facsimile of a smile surfaced on Snape's visage. "I think, Potter, that you have finally learned not even the Boy-Who-Lived can save everyone; that your actions have consequences. You realize, do you not, that had you actually _practiced_ what I have been trying to teach you all year, the Dark Lord would not have been able to lure you out last night? That, had you not gone, your ever-faithful mutt would still be among the living?"

Harry had been doing all right with keeping a reign on his temper until Snape brought Sirius into the conversation. Something previously held in – even when he had yelled at his friends the summer before this year-from-hell, even when he'd trashed the headmaster's office – snapped. In a single, fluid move, Harry vaulted over the table and had his hands wrapped in Snape's collar and _lifted_. Though the professor was a full six feet, two inches tall, and Harry was a mere five-foot-eight, the toes of Snape's boots barely brushed the floor.

Severus hadn't known for sure what sort of response he'd been aiming for – tears wouldn't have been unexpected, nor would shouting, perhaps even a hex or two – but _this_ was definitely _not_ a logical Potter-reaction. He hadn't had time to react to the singular experience of seeing Potter as fast and graceful on the ground as he normally was only on his broom, nor had he the time to even _think_ about reaching for his wand, let alone _do_ so. Potter's eyes were bright, almost glowing in the dim light of the kitchen, and his hair stood out on end. Snape could feel the raw magic leaking from the teen, even as he absently noticed something cold on the boy's right arm digging into his neck.

"I'm going to say this once, and you _are_ going to fucking listen to me," Potter's voice resonated from deep in his chest, reverberating with fury, magic, and something unidentifiable that demanded attention. "_I _am _not_ my father, no more so than you are yours. Quit hating _me_ because you hated Dad. I don't give a fuck if you hate me, but hate _me_, and do so for some other reason than Dad was a fucking asshole when you went to school together!" With each stressed word, Potter shook Severus a little, making the back of his head hit the doorframe. "I am _not_ the _only_ one to blame for what happened last night. Voldemort may have orchestrated it, and Bellatrix may have been the one to actually cast the curse, but equal parts of the blame can be apportioned out to me, you, the headmaster, Sirius, and even the fucking Ministry itself!" Potter's arms finally seemed to grow tired, and Severus was slowly lowered to the floor. Letting go of his collar, Potter took a shaky breath and stepped back, though the magic pooled around him didn't dissipate at all. "Don't you get it, you fucking bastard? You've _won_. Dad and Sirius can't hurt you any more. Wormtail is Voldemort's bitch. Remus is alone. You've outlasted the Marauders; good-for-fucking-you."

Harry took several steps backwards and breathed deeply for a moment, his eyes closed. Severus cleared his throat, but didn't get to say anything. "Go ahead and take points, Snape. I don't fucking care. Assign detention. Try to convince Dumbledore to expel me – not that I think you'll get far with _that_. It's not going to matter in the long run, so do your worst."

Though Severus dearly wanted to take Potter up on his offer, he changed his plan and reached for his wand.

When Harry didn't hear his professor say, 'That will be a thousand points off Gryffindor for defamation of a professor, use of crude language, and physical assault of said professor and detention with me for a year,' he opened his eyes.

That was what Severus had been waiting for. "Legilimens!"

Severus had no problems insinuating himself into Harry's memories and thoughts. The uppermost levels of the teen's mind were little more than chaos. _Who gives a fuck about house points? Sirius… Toujours Pur… I wish the shepherd's pie here had fewer carrots in it… Dobby's a good elf, if rather enthusiastic… 'Truth is universal, perception of truth is not.' How could my relatives just off and leave me? …Department for the Regulation and Control of Interdimensional Threats… 'Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…' I'm so goddamned weary, so tired of all of this; I just want to sleep… 'To sleep, aye there's the rub, to sleep – perchance to dream, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?' _Pushing past the confusion, somewhat curious that he only figured marginally in Potter's thoughts – almost an afterthought in conjunction with house points – Severus wormed his way deeper into Harry's mind.

Instead of fragmentary thoughts, Severus found himself standing in the midst of a whirlwind of memory, small blips of images flitting past almost before he could recognize them for what they were. An image of a pair of old, worn out sneakers landed in a trash can… a white envelope was held out by a concerned-looking Longbottom… a thesteral nuzzled Potter's hair… Black flew backwards through a stone archway… Silver gadgets lay in twisted heaps on the floor of the headmaster's office; Fawkes perched on Albus' shoulder… Fawkes on a burning day, suddenly bursting into flame… The Sorting Hat… Darkness and a voice, 'Slytherin can help you on your way to greatness'.

With a disconcerting suddenness, the whirlwind of images and sound died, leaving Severus standing in a fog of gray haze. "Snape." He spun around and saw Potter standing not ten feet from him. "What did you hope this would accomplish?"

Severus shook his head, "I just wanted the truth from you, for once in your life."

Severus didn't like the smile that appeared on Harry's face. It made the teen look rather deranged. "Truth? You've been walking in shadow so long, Snape, I doubt you'd know the truth if it crawled up your ass and died there. However, I feel like humoring you. What did you want to know? Did you want to know that those memories you saw over this last year _weren't_ isolated incidents? Did you want to know that my aunt and uncle would prefer it if Voldemort got his heart's desire in seeing me dead, just so they didn't have to deal with me any more? Did you want to know how often I read and reread _Hamlet_ simply because of his soliloquy and how _true_ it is for me? What did you want to know, Snape? _What_?"

Severus attempted to end the spell, to go back to his own mind. Though he felt the characteristic tingle that indicated the legilimens spell had been cancelled, he didn't immediately return to his own mind. Harry laughed, "It's not that simple, Snape. I'm tired of your attitude. You won't be going anywhere until _I_ say so. This is _my_ mind and I'm sick of you mucking about in it."

Severus found himself at a loss, a feeling he wasn't used to having in Potter's presence. He said the only thing he could, the only thing that had been on his mind since he discovered that Potter wasn't quite who he thought he was. "I wanted to know why."

Harry smirked a little, "'Why'? You want to know 'why'? For a Slytherin, Snape, you certainly leave a lot of loopholes, don't you?" The smirk broadened and bordered on a real smile. "I don't think I'll answer you. Not yet, anyway. Maybe someday, but not today. Now, get out of my head so you can run off and tell Dumbledore all about this." Harry made a shooing motion with his hands, "Go on. Get out and run off and talk with Dumbledore. I have better things to be doing with my time."

Severus staggered a little upon returning to his own mind. He took a moment to reorient himself and when he looked around the kitchen, Potter was no longer there. _Something's not right with that boy,_ he thought. _But damned if I know what it is… This requires some thought._ Contrary to Potter's opinion, Severus had made it a habit to only go to the headmaster when he had something concrete to offer the man. At that moment, all he had were suppositions and theories so unformed as to be embryonic. Forgetting that he'd originally headed to the kitchens for a bit of a late-evening snack – he'd missed dinner while busy in his lab – he removed himself to his quarters.

While Severus was busy thinking, Harry headed back to the dorm. He didn't run across anyone until he opened the portrait. The common room was crowded. Ignoring the questions that began the moment he was noticed, Harry made his way to the stairs and up to the fifth-year boys' room. Neville was there, sorting through his trunk. "Hey," Neville greeted him.

"Hello," Harry replied absently.

"You really don't look well," Neville said, setting down a pair of socks and getting up from where he'd crouched on the floor.

"Thanks," was Harry's sarcastic reply.

"No, really, Harry. You look like hell. What happened? Did the headmaster tell you were you were going to stay until your family got back from their trip?"

Harry shook his head, "No, I wasn't talking with Dumbledore."

"Where were you, then?"

"I went down to the kitchens for something to eat. I ran into Snape."

Neville winced, "How many points did we lose?"

Harry shook his head, "None that I'm aware of."

"What happened?"

Harry's forehead wrinkled in thought for a moment before he nodded to himself. "What were you doing when I came in, Neville?"

"Just going through my trunk, figuring out what I could get rid of before we packed to go home."

"Nothing that can't wait until later, then?"

Neville nodded, "Right."

"Where are Dean and Seamus?"

"I don't know. I think Dean said something about wanting to finish up an extra-credit essay for Sinistra, and I haven't seen Seamus since dinner. Why?"

"Because I think I need to talk to someone, and I don't know who else I can trust with this… I don't think it's a good idea to do so here, especially since we don't know when Seamus will come back."

"Why don't we go to the Room of Requirement?"

Harry shook his head, "Not this time, Neville."

"Where, then?"

Harry opened his trunk and dug out the backpack Lily had sent him. "You trust me, right?" he asked, putting it on over his shoulders.

Neville nodded warily, "Yes… Why?"

Harry retrieved his broom from under his bed. He handed his invisibility cloak to Neville, "Put this on and wait in the window."

"What?" Neville asked, holding the cloak while Harry mounted his broom and flew out of the window, not unlike how he had done so the night before. Neville hurried over to the window and looked down. He could see Harry pull up on the broom long before the fall became dangerous and almost before he could blink, Harry was hovering just outside.

"Put the cloak on, Neville. I don't care if I get in trouble, but you shouldn't have to worry about detentions this late in the year."

Curious, Neville swung the cloak on, and pulled it closed around himself. "You'll make sure I won't fall, right?"

"Of course." It took some doing, but before long, an invisible Neville was seated behind Harry, clinging to the backpack. Flying rather slowly, Harry took the two of them to the Gryffindor stands on the quidditch pitch.

When they'd landed, Neville handed Harry the cloak. "You know that curfew isn't for another hour – we could have walked."

Harry nodded, "I know, but I don't know if this will take longer than an hour or not, and this way we didn't run into anyone I didn't want to talk to."

"Oh," Neville sat on one of the wooden benches. "What _did_ you want to talk about, though?"

Harry removed the backpack and sat it carefully at his feet before taking a seat next to Neville. "What I'm going to say needs to stay between the two of us for now." Neville nodded, his eyes wide. "In all honesty, I don't know if the last twenty hours or so haven't been some sort of weird hallucination…"

"What's going on, Harry? You know you can trust me."

"I thought I could trust Ron and Hermione, too."

"But they're your best friends. What are you talking about?"

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to explain this, so I'll tell you what I know so far. First point, when we got back from the Ministry last night, I talked with Dumbledore." Neville nodded, he had assumed as much. "I found out some things that Dumbledore had been keeping from me. I got angry and ended up in the Room of Requirement. I hadn't really been thinking of anything in particular when the door showed up, so, curious, I went in. I'd wanted to see what the room thought I needed." Harry bent down and unzipped one of the pockets on the backpack. "Point two, the room gave me this." He handed the palmtop to Neville.

Neville took it and looked it over. "What is it?"

"It's a muggle thing, a palmtop computer. Here, let me show you what I found when I turned it on." Harry took it back and opened it. It took a moment for it to boot up, when it finished, Harry pulled up the video of Lily.

Neville watched it in silence, a thousand questions flickering across his face at any given moment. When it finished, he blinked several times. "How do you know it's not another trick from You-Know… Vol… Oh, hell. _Him._"

"For one, I don't think that Voldemort would be able to create something like this. Secondly, I was able to confirm some of what she told me, and I went to Gringotts last night and they were able to confirm more. I found this backpack in my personal vault, and I know _I_ didn't put it there. The earring is part of a radio that makes it so I can talk with her. Sorry about the lie earlier, but –"

"Don't worry about it," Neville interrupted, "I think I would have done the same in your shoes. So, you're pretty sure what she's said is the truth."

Harry nodded, "Yeah, I do. Have you ever heard of 'exibeo magus'?"

"I think so… Isn't that the spell that healers use to find out what went wrong in botched transfigurations?"

Harry nodded again, "That it is, but it can also tell you if there are any spells on you and what those spells are and how long they've been there. I did that spell on myself, and found that I had a tracking charm on me, a spell called a 'core block', and an obliviate."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I transferred the tracking charm to this shoelace," Harry pulled his pant leg up a little to show Neville the gray shoelace tied to his ankle.

"Why didn't you just break it?"

"Because I didn't want Dumbledore to know that I now know he's up to something until I was far enough from him to be able to think. We've still got most of two weeks before term ends."

"What of the other two spells?"

"Well, the computer has that library in it that Lily mentioned," Harry was a little proud of the fact that he didn't stumble on Lily's name, "and using it, I was able to remove the core block."

"What is – rather, what _was_ it?"

"According to the information in the computer, it's a spell to limit the amount of magic a person has access to. I've felt somewhat off since I removed it, but not in a bad way. It's more like I've been half-asleep my entire life and only just woke up."

"And the obliviate?"

Harry frowned, "That's the one I don't fully understand. Here, let me show you what I mean. Exibeo magus," the blue glow appeared on his wand. He let it sink into his arm. In short order, the display splashed up.

**Spells Found: 1**_  
Active Spells: 1_

Spell Descriptions

_Obliviate – Active – blocking approximately 54 years' time –  
set in place 14 years, 7 months, 27 days, 10 hours, 43 minutes_

Neville had to get up and move behind Harry to read it. "How can an obliviate be blocking more time than you've been alive?"

"I don't know, and that's what I don't understand."

Neville moved back to his seat. "It doesn't make any sense. You did the spell right, otherwise it wouldn't have worked at all."

Harry's intended reply was cut short by a chime from his earring. He hit 'mode' three times on his watch, "Just a moment, Neville. Hello?"

"Harry. Not interrupting anything, I hope?"

"Not really. I was talking with Neville Longbottom."

Lily chuckled, "That's good. I had hoped you had more friends that _weren't_ under Dumbledore's influence."

"Is there any way to make it so that he can listen to this, too?"

"Yes, in the backpack, there should be another watch/earring pair. Just transfigure the post on the earring into a clip if Neville doesn't want an actual piercing."

"Okay, hang on for a minute."

"Harry? What's going on? Who are you talking to?" Neville thought it simultaneously amusing and disturbing that Harry was seemingly talking to nothing.

"It's Lily," Harry replied, pulling up the backpack. In the compartment he'd originally found his earring and watch, he found another set. The earring on this one wasn't a dragon though, merely a simple silver ball. He removed it from the card and handed the watch to Neville, walking him through how to activate the watch. "Lily said I can make this a clip-on if you don't want a piercing."

Neville shrugged, "Just do it, I don't care what Gran has to say about it. I'll deal with that later."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah… Just do it."

Harry pinched the lobe of Neville's right ear tightly, until the flesh under the skin parted somewhat and the front and back layers of skin were rubbing against each other. "Sorry," he said as he poked the post of the earring through. Neville jumped a little, but to his surprise, it wasn't as painful as he'd feared. "Hold still," Harry said, aiming his wand at the earring. "Episky," he said, and a tiny tingle of healing magic washed over the miniscule wound.

"Now what?" Neville asked, fingering the little metal ball. Harry walked Neville through the button-pressing pattern on the watch to activate the device. Neville jerked a little when the earring made a chiming noise.

"It's ringing, isn't it?"

Neville nodded. Harry smiled, "Hit 'mode' three times, quickly, on the watch to answer it."

Neville did as he was told and heard a voice. "That's right. Oh, you're on. Good evening, Neville."

"Hello?" Neville obviously had never used a telephone before.

"This is Lily – I assume Harry's been telling you about me."

"He has."

"And what is your opinion of the situation?"

Neville took a breath and let it out slowly. "Honestly? I don't really know. At least, now I know Harry hasn't gone completely barmy."

"'Completely barmy'?" Harry repeated, an indignant look on his face. "'_Completely_'?"

Neville smiled, "Harry, mate, you've always been a bit touched, but that's part of why you're _you_."

Lily's laughter echoed through the earrings. "I think I like this friend of yours, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes and whispered, "Why me?" to the sky.

Lily answered. "Because you're just lucky, I guess."

Shaking his head in bemusement, Harry attempted to bring the conversation back around to what he thought they should be talking about. "Mu… Erm… I mean, Lily? Weren't you going to answer some of my questions?"

Politely ignoring the fact that this was the second time Harry had nearly called her 'Mum', Lily chuckled one last time and replied. "Not as such, Harry. There were a few things I needed to go over with you, and Harvey tells me that this is the last time I'll be able to get a clear signal through on the radios until the day before term ends."

"What of my questions?"

"Harry, you're going to have to get used to the fact that I am not going to be able to give you all the answers you want. Firstly, I don't know _all_ the answers. Secondly, some of the answers you want are things you need to figure out on your own – if I were to just tell you, then your reality's causality string may become corrupted. Third and lastly, we don't have much time to talk tonight, so listen and try not to interrupt.

"I set up something of a present for you – you may have received a letter about your uncle winning a trip to Fiji?"

"Yeah, he did," Neville supplied.

"Good. I wanted to give you the opportunity to meet some people outside of school. I'm using MOTAP to try to nudge your timeline along the proper channels."

"MOTAP?" Neville asked. Harry was more than happy to let Neville do his interrupting for him.

"Magic Oriented Timeline Analysis and Projection. Basically, it's a combination of a computer program and a spell that can give estimations on the probability of particular events happening in any reality's causality string – their timeline. May I continue?"

"Please," Harry said, his tone amused.

"Where was I? Oh, yeah. The Dursleys will likely run into some… _issues_ while on their trip. By that time, however, you should be ready to no longer need their 'help'. I suppose this next bit would be considered 'bad news' – at least for the time-being. The person who will be responsible for your protection for the first part of the summer will be Severus Snape."

Harry groaned. "Can my life get any more complicated?"

"Yes," was Lily's matter-of-fact reply. "This may not seem to be your ideal circumstances for the summer, but it's bound to be better than the Dursleys. You know that _he_ won't stoop to acting like they have in the past. And, don't despair, the summer won't be without… redeeming features."

"Oh?"

"Yes. A distant relative of your professor and a friend of said relative will be staying with you for the duration."

"Where will he be staying? I thought students weren't allowed at Hogwarts during the summer term so that repairs and whatnot could be done."

"That is true, Neville, and all I can say to that is that Harry will only be staying at the house Dumbledore selects for a couple of days. After that point, there are equal chances he will end up staying in any one of a dozen different locations. MOTAP just can't clarify it any further at that point – at least, not yet." The clarity of the connection was beginning to suffer. Some background static was making itself heard.

"The radios can be used to talk to each other over any distance," Lily hurriedly told them; she had heard the static, too. "It's all in the reference manual in the computer. Neville?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Have Harry copy the instructions for you. We haven't yet managed to send a reliable printer for the computer." The static was growing noisier. "And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

The sound started fading while the static grew louder, "You need to… marks. …hear… Need… Snape's… back… marks… runes… talk… day before… ends…" The line grew silent.

"What was that last bit about, Harry?"

"I don't know… Something about runes and Snape's Dark Mark, I assume."

"What do you think she meant?"

Harry shook his head, "I have no idea."

* * *

**A/N2:** Next chapter in a couple days.


	6. Life in Weirdsville

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** This was the last chapter I had written from several years ago concerning this tale. I still have another four chapters ready, so relatively quick updates may continue for a while. I'll let y'all know when I run out of chapters-to-post, just so you'll know why it's taking a little longer than normal between updates. Happy reading!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Five: Life in Weirdsville  
_

During the following few days, Harry and Neville were rarely seen outside one another's company. Neville managed to make sure most of the student body didn't harass Harry with questions regarding their adventure at the Ministry, and had also pointed out to Harry that he shouldn't wear the rings he'd received from Gringotts unless he wanted everyone to know about his change in status, and Harry… Well, Harry had his hands full avoiding the list of people Lily had given him, particularly Snape – he still didn't know what Lily's last message regarding the man had been, but it was more than enough that he was expected to spend an as-yet-undetermined amount of his summer actually living with the man.

On the first Tuesday following that fateful night at the Ministry, Luna Lovegood showed up outside the portrait of the fat lady. A first year student that Harry and Neville didn't recall the name of let them know that she wanted to talk to them.

Harry, hauling his black backpack, and Neville met her in the hallway. "Luna?"

Luna smiled, "Hello Harry, Neville. How have you been?"

Neville and Harry exchanged glances, "Well enough, I suppose," Neville answered.

"Did you see the Sunday _Prophet_? They bought Harry's interview from Daddy."

"Yeah, we noticed."

"Ronald and Hermione are wondering why Harry hasn't been to visit them."

Harry winced a little, he still hadn't figured out what he was going to do about those two. "I just… I mean… It's hard…"

Luna's smile didn't falter, "Don't worry. I told them you were worried about the possibility of lingering ashel mites. I don't think Hermione believed me." Changing the subject, Luna asked, "So, what are you two going to do this summer? Daddy said he wanted to take me to visit some friends of his in Norway."

"What I normally do, I suppose," Neville replied. "Help Uncle Algie in the greenhouse and whatnot."

"Sounds like fun. What about you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged, "I don't know."

Luna's smile broadened, "I think you'll like your summer, Harry."

"I doubt that," Harry didn't think a summer with Snape sounded particularly appealing.

Luna laughed. "It'll be better than you think." Luna turned to go and Harry and Neville watched as she started down the hallway. She paused before turning a corner, "Tell Lily I said hi, would you?"

Neville and Harry exchanged another glance, this one one of surprise, but Luna had disappeared before they could call after her. "Damn it," Harry muttered and kicked the wall. "Who else knows about this?"

Neville shook his head, "I don't think we need to worry about it, Harry. Luna's… well, _Luna_. She sees what she wants to."

"But –"

"According to that first message you received, Luna isn't one of the ones that the professor is using, right?"

Harry nodded. "But –"

"But nothing. She's weird, we both know this. It doesn't mean anything, other than she's on _your_ side."

Sighing, Harry dropped it for the time being. "What do I do about Ron and Hermione though?"

"I don't know, Harry. Come on, let's go back up to our room. You can make them a get-well card and I'll take it to them tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan. Aren't they supposed to get out of hospital soon?"

"I don't know."

Most of the remainder of the term passed much in this manner, with Neville acting as an intermediary between Harry and the rest of the students, particularly Ron and Hermione. Hermione seemed to understand when Neville relayed the message that Harry just needed some time alone, but he noticed something… unsettling about Ron's expression. Neville wondered, for the first time, if Ron was _willingly_ aiding the headmaster in his control of the people surrounding Harry. The only real bright spot during the last two weeks of term was when Delores Umbridge was finally driven from the school. Even Harry'd managed to crack a smile at seeing _that_.

When term finally ended, he and Harry joined Ron and Hermione in one of the thesteral-drawn carriages. Ron seemed to be back to himself; whatever it was that Neville had thought he'd spotted in the redhead's expression was no longer there. Knowing that Harry was trying not to raise their suspicions too much, Neville helped keep the talk in the carriage light. It was surprisingly easy to do, as Harry was subtly directing the conversation, keeping it away from anything that might be a problem. Ron's obsessive monologue after Harry had asked about the Cannon's standing managed to fill in most of the journey to Hogsmeade, as well as locating a compartment on the train. Once the Hogwarts Express pulled away from the station, Ron and Hermione left to patrol the cars – their prefect duties still active until the last student disembarked at Platform 9 ¾.

After they'd left, Harry slid the door to the compartment shut and slumped backward in his seat. "So…" Neville said, "what's the plan?"

Harry removed a crumpled parchment envelope from his pocket and read aloud.

_Harry, _

_As you know, your relatives will be unavailable for the first portion of the summer. With Voldemort still at large, you will need to be in a protected location until they return. Therefore, Professor Snape has graciously agreed to watch over you for the duration at one of the Order's safe-houses. He will meet you at King's Cross Station. Please let him know at that time if you need to stop by Privet Drive to retrieve any of your summer things. Remember what we discussed, Harry. _

_Yours Sincerely,  
Albus Dumbledore_

"I never really saw it before, but he's… he talks down to you, doesn't he? I mean, it isn't obvious, like Snape. He's not insulting or rude or anything like that, but… he –"

Harry nodded and removed his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. "I know, Neville. He's got that whole disappointed-grandfather shtick going for him. And I disagree; he _is_ insulting, but it's not in _what _he says. It's _how_ he says it. The whole 'you're-just-a-kid-and-don't-deserve-full-disclosure-now-run-along-and-play' tone. It's like he's so much older than we are, he's forgotten that we know how to think at our age."

"Not quite what I was going to say, but probably better phrased than I could have managed."

"I still don't know what to do about Ron and Hermione, though. Any ideas?"

Neville sighed, "Not so much on Hermione – I think, if she knew what was going on, she'd help you in a heartbeat – but… Ron… There's something, oh, I don't know."

"What?"

"Well… I can't be sure, but there's something I thought I saw the other day. It's weird, though, so I don't know if I actually saw it or not."

Harry growled in frustration, "Neville, either tell me or drop the subject. Quit dancing around it."

Neville chuckled a little. "All right, all right. It's going to sound nuts."

"Neville!"

"Fine. When I told him that you needed some time alone to think, he got this weird look on his face. It was only there a split-second, and I _could_ have imagined it."

"But you don't think you did."

"No, I don't."

Harry toyed with a buckle on his backpack. "What do you think it meant?"

Neville bit his lip, "I don't really know. It could have just been that he's your best friend and was worried about you after what happened at the Ministry."

Harry rolled his eyes up to the ceiling of the compartment and let out a deep breath, "Neville, I can tell that's not what you really think."

"I know. It's what I want to believe, though. I fear it's more that he wanted to be able to make one last report to the headmaster before summer began."

Harry nodded, "You think he's aiding and abetting Dumbledore." It wasn't a question.

"I do. It makes sense, the whole Weasley family has been supporters of Dumbledore since well before the Grindlewald thing back in the forties."

"I don't want to believe it, either, Neville, but I don't think that what _I_ want is going to figure too largely in my life for quite some time to come."

Neville sighed again and changed the subject. "Have you heard from Lily recently?"

Harry shook his head. "Not since that night in the quidditch stands. Honestly, it's starting to worry me a bit."

"I'm sure it's nothing. Maybe whatever it was that broke the connection that night has yet to clear."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know. All I do know is that I really _don't_ want to spend the summer with Snape."

"There really isn't much that can be done about it, though."

"I know, I know. It sucks, but that's pretty much the story of my life."

Neville gestured towards Harry's backpack, "Why don't you see about looking into that obliviate, then? If you can't do anything about living with Snape, you might as well see if there is anything you can do about _that_."

Harry shook his head again. "No, Neville, I think I've researched that avenue to death. You can't remove an obliviate from yourself; someone else has to do it for you. I have been thinking about it, though. You know how it's blocking more than fifty years, right?" Neville nodded. "Well… I don't know why it didn't occur to me immediately, but I've got a theory on it."

"What?"

Harry grimaced, "It's kind of gross to think about, but I'm sure this _is_ what's going on."

Neville grinned and shook his head rather exasperatedly. "Are you going to tell me, or should I just throw you out the window?"

Harry laughed somewhat humorlessly. "Well… I think the obliviate is blocking Voldemort."

Neville blinked. "Huh? If that was the case, then how come the Ministry-thing happened?"

"No, you miss my meaning, Neville. It's not blocking the living Voldemort. I think it's blocking the memory of him."

"Sorry, I still don't follow."

"Okay," Harry leaned across the compartment, "look at it this way: Dumbledore said that the night Voldemort killed my parents, he 'accidentally' transferred part of his power to me when the AK rebounded; that's why – or so Dumbledore told me – I can speak to snakes. With me so far?" Neville nodded. "Okay, then let's assume that Dumbledore isn't telling me the full story, like usual. What if, instead of part of his _power_, he ended up transferring a copy of his _memories_?"

"Kind of like a living pensieve?"

This time, it was Harry who nodded, "Precisely. He'd done something similar before, transferring a memory of himself into a diary. Do you remember everything that happened in second year?"

"Wasn't that the year a basilisk got loose in the school and petrified all those people?"

"Yeah. The basilisk was released because Ginny got a hold of Voldemort's old diary and it possessed her."

Neville let out a low whistle. "Damn. And you think he did the same thing, essentially, to you?"

"It makes sense and fits all that I know about the problem. When Voldemort killed my parents, he was right around fifty-five or fifty-six. I don't know exactly, because I don't know when his birthday is."

"How do you know that's how old he was?"

"That diary I mentioned? Yeah, I got a chance to 'talk' to it. He was a fifth-year fifty years before we were second-years. I suppose it helps that Hogwarts won't take students unless they are eleven," Harry finished with a wry, little grin.

"So… If he really did copy his memories into you that night, then someone had to have known what really happened, or else the obliviate wouldn't have been put there to block him."

Harry's grin morphed into a true smile. "I always did suspect that Snape was completely wrong every time he called you a 'bumbling brainless excuse for a student'. Nice to see I was right."

Neville blushed. "And with all the stuff we've learned about Dumbledore, it's reasonable to assume that he's the one who obliviated the memories, right?"

Harry shrugged, "I don't have any concrete proof, but that's what I suspect."

Neville bit his lip in thought and sat back in the seat. "You know, Harry, I almost hate to suggest this, but maybe we're all better off leaving that particular spell in place for now. I mean, you're probably the best friend I've ever had, but the last thing we need right now is _two _Voldemorts running around."

Harry laughed. "You might be right about that, at least until we figure out what to do."

The remainder of the trip back to London went rather well, with Harry and Neville chatting. At one point, Ginny stopped by and said hello, and when the train came closer to their final destination, Ron and Hermione rejoined them in the compartment. Harry had just enough warning to slip back into his 'nothing is wrong' persona he had taken to projecting around the people on Lily's list. He was confident that neither Ron nor Hermione noticed his oddness around them.

When the train pulled to a stop at King's Cross Station, Harry glanced out the windows and sighed. "I guess this is it until September," he said to his friends.

Ron clasped Harry's shoulder, "It won't be all that long, I promise. I'm sure Dumbledore will let you come to the Burrow for at least a little while."

Harry smiled at Ron, trying to forget for a moment that the only person in the compartment he could completely trust was himself, though Neville was rapidly moving up on the list. "Yeah. Hope so," he replied, not allowing himself to fall too deeply into his self delusion that everything was fine. "I'm not going to hold my breath, though. Write me?"

Ron nodded, "Sure thing." The lanky redhead then grabbed his trunk and proceeded to fight his way through the crowd to his waiting family after saying goodbye to Hermione.

Neville, likewise, had retrieved his trunk. "I'll keep in touch, too, Harry," he said with a flickering glance to first his own watch and then Harry's.

Harry's smile brightened a little, "I know, Neville. Let me know what your Gran says, okay?"

When Neville had vacated the compartment, Harry was reaching for his own trunk when Hermione cleared her throat. A little abashed that he'd nearly forgotten she was there, Harry startled. "What?" he asked.

Hermione was still sitting on the bench, looking up at Harry with an odd expression. Harry wasn't sure what it meant; it sort-of looked like a combination of confusion, the look she got when faced with a mountain of homework, and just a touch of anxiety. "Harry…" she began, but trailed off.

"We'd better hurry up, Hermione. I'm sure you don't want to miss your parents." Harry finished tugging down his trunk from the overhead shelf.

"We still have an hour before the train returns to Hogsmeade," Hermione stated, then sighed. "I'd hoped to be able to talk to you while we were still at school, but you kept avoiding me…"

Cautiously, Harry sat his trunk down and turned to face the bushy-haired girl. "What did you want to talk about?"

She leaned forward a little and rested her elbows on her knees, her fingers lightly rubbing her temples. "Something weirder than normal for us is going on, Harry. I don't know what, really… but… I…" she stopped suddenly and looked up at him.

A little flare of hope burst forth in Harry's chest. "What, Hermione? What have you noticed?"

With a slightly pained expression, she shook her head as though trying to physically clear something from it. With her eyes closed, she muttered, "I _don't know_. Warped time, missing chunks – it doesn't make any _sense_!"

When she opened her eyes, Harry could see the underlying panic she was forcibly keeping back. "What are you talking about, Hermione? Missing chunks of what?"

Hermione opened her mouth as though to answer, but no sound came out. With a wordless cry, her head twitched violently to the right. Knowing that she was one of the people on whom Dumbledore was keeping a close watch couldn't stop Harry's automatic response. Hermione had been one of his closest and best friends for as long as he'd been going to Hogwarts, and to see her in pain triggered his reflexes. He knelt in front of her, though she'd gone quite still after the twitch. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. He reached out and shook her shoulder, "Hermione?"

She blinked rapidly, her breathing slowing to its normal pace. "I'm sorry, Harry, I must have been daydreaming. What were you saying?"

Making a split decision, Harry stood and quickly slid the door to the compartment shut and locked it. "Harry?"

"Hermione," Harry said, turning back around, his wand in hand, "listen carefully to me, and trust me. Can you do that?"

Hermione smiled, "Of course. But… you really ought to put your wand away. You don't want to get expelled, do you?"

Harry's smile was far grimmer than Hermione's. "I don't want expelled. But, technically speaking, we've not left the train yet, so this shouldn't matter. Also, I don't think Dumbledore would _allow_ me to be expelled. Not with Voldemort still out there."

Hermione laughed a little, "I see your point. What did you need, though? I'm sure my parents are waiting for me…"

Harry nodded and sat down next to Hermione. "I know. Hopefully, this won't take long."

"What won't take long?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, "Just hold still for a moment, okay?" When Hermione nodded, Harry flicked his wand, "Exibeo magus." When the blue glow formed, he rolled the wand along the back of Hermione's hand.

Hermione recognized the incantation, but was unprepared for the ticklish sensation of the spell running through her. She wasn't sure what Harry's reasoning was for the spell until the results display appeared; blue letters hovering in the air.

**Spells Found: 5**_  
Active Spells: 1  
Interactive Spells: 2  
Passive Spells: 2_

Spell Descriptions

_Trace – Passive – Standard underage tracing spell –  
set in place 16 years, 8 months, 21 days, 8 hours, 10 minutes_

_Contraceptus – Passive – set in place  
4 years, 7 months, 22 days, 14 hours, 9 minutes_

_Defigo Veritas – Interactive – set in place  
5 years, 9 months, 29 days, 10 hours_

_Obliviate – Active – blocking approximately 8 hours, 34 minutes'  
worth of total time – newest set in place 1 week, 3 days, 8 hours, 44 minutes_

_Ultimate Authority – Interactive – set in place 4 years,  
7 months, 30 days, 20 hours, 4 minutes_

The only spell Harry recognized was the obliviate. "Harry? What was that for?" Hermione asked.

"Just a mo, Hermione," he quickly retrieved his palmtop from his backpack. While waiting for it to boot up, he nodded towards the rapidly-fading light of the exibeo results. "Did you know you had those spells on you?" he asked.

Hermione shrugged, "Everyone magical who is underage has a Trace – it's usually set in place within moments of a child's birth. I thought everyone knew that. For muggleborns like me, there are watchwitches who work in muggle hospitals that do it. For everyone else, it's either a parent or a midwife who places the Trace."

Recalling that no such spell showed up on either of his own exibeo results, Harry merely nodded, telling himself to check into that at a later date. "And what of the rest?" he asked, pulling up the search engine in the palmtop while he spoke.

"I don't recall ever having heard of a spell called 'Ultimate Authority' – personally, I think it sounds rather ominous. The obliviate is somewhat alarming, as well. The last two are spells Madam Pomfrey gave me, so I know what they are."

Harry looked up at her. "And what _are_ they?"

Hermione sighed and looked away, "I don't really want to talk about it, Harry. Please."

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. "Come on, Hermione. Just let me know what they are."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You honestly haven't heard of contraceptus?"

Hearing her pronounce it, Harry got it. He blushed. "Oh. Um… Sorry. But what about the other one?"

Hermione stood so quickly, Harry nearly got whiplash trying to follow her movement. "Harry, no. It's not something I want to talk about, and I want you to promise me that you won't go looking for it."

Suspicious, Harry slowly stood, closing the computer and tucking it into his jeans pocket as he did so. "Why?"

"Because I asked, Harry. Trust me – it isn't anything bad. I swear. I just don't want people to know about it. Please, _please_ promise me you won't look for the spell?"

Harry shook his head, "I'm sorry, Hermione, but I can't do that. What is the spell for?" He knew it couldn't have been a healing spell because of her injuries at the Ministry - it had been set in place too long.

Hermione was growing angry, "Like I said, Madam Pomfrey gave it to me, so would you please drop it!" She grabbed her trunk and very nearly ran out of the compartment before Harry could do more than shout after her.

"Hermione!" She didn't look back. "Damn it," Harry growled, turning back to his own trunk. _What the _hell_ is going on? I know that Mu – Lily, damn it! I know that _Lily_ said she was one of the ones Dumbledore had under his thumb, but what the fuck is that spell and why is she so reluctant to talk about it?_ Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a glimpse of a very irritated-looking Snape lurking on the rapidly emptying platform. Harry sighed and shrugged into his backpack, then grabbed his trunk and Hedwig's cage. He could have sworn he heard a funeral march play as he slowly made his way through the mostly-deserted train to the platform.

Snape met him at the door with a sneer. "Potter."

Harry absolutely refused to let the professor get the best of him and so forced himself to remain neutral. "Professor."

"If you've forgotten anything, it's not my problem, Potter. I will not come back for it."

"I've not forgotten anything," Harry replied, his voice still flat and inflectionless with his forced neutrality.

Snape began walking towards the barrier that housed the archway to the muggle portion of King's Cross, not even bothering with offering to help Harry with his luggage. Snape only paused momentarily at the barrier. Passing his wand over his robes without a word, the long black fabric changed shape. His professor was now wearing a muggle trench coat – _And if _that_ isn't a fitting garment for him, I don't know what is!_ – over his white shirt, black vest, and trousers. The man's dragonhide boots looked enough like muggle shoes that they went largely ignored by everyone. Snape glanced in Harry's direction once, to verify that he was still following him, before striding through the barrier. Harry really didn't want to follow him, but knew he had no choice.

Once through the barrier and into the muggle area of the train station, Harry suddenly realized that he _could_ run. All he'd need to do is duck into a bathroom, remove the shoelace from his ankle, and take off. He knew, theoretically, how to operate in the muggle world… Harry shook his head. _Fat lot of good that would do me. I'm sure that if I didn't run into the Death Eaters, Dumbledore would find me without too much trouble. Come on, Harry. Think, damn it._

He was startled out of his thoughts by Snape's shrill, piercing whistle. A taxi pulled up to the curb. _Since when can Snape do mugglish things?_ Harry mutely watched his professor speak quietly with the driver for a moment before he turned to him and sniped, "Put your trunk in the boot, Potter. I don't have all day."

Biting back the retort Harry desperately wanted to say, he did as Snape bid him and put his trunk in the boot. He removed his backpack from his shoulder and debated putting it in the boot as well, but decided to keep it with him for the time-being. Following his teacher, even though he would much rather have done nearly anything else, he slid into the back seat of the cab, Hedwig on his lap. Snape, unruffled as ever, handed the taxi driver a couple of folded-over muggle bills. "Number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

The driver took the money and nodded, "Aye, mister."

Harry reached up and slid the glass window that divided the driver's area from the passenger area shut. Turning a glare on Snape, he hissed, "Just why are we going _there_?"

"The headmaster told me to allow you the opportunity to gather what things you needed for the summer from your family's home, Potter. Surely, even _you_ can comprehend that?"

"There's nothing there for me, Snape," Harry replied before letting the topic drop and proceeding to stare out the window, a bare glimmer of an idea beginning to surface in his mind.

After what seemed to be both the shortest and longest trip ever from King's Cross to his aunt and uncle's house, the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the brown brick house that was identical in every way to the houses on either side of it; the color of flowers lining the walk the only real difference. Harry got out of the cab and lingered long enough to hear Snape tell the driver to wait for them. He then headed around the side of the house for the back door. He had just finished removing the spare key from a fake rock when Snape caught up to him. "What are you doing, Potter?"

Harry looked up to meet Snape's eyes, "What does it look like I'm doing, Snape? I'm making sure you get what you came after. My so-called _family_ doesn't trust me with a key to their precious house, but their oh-so-wonderful son is always forgetting his, so they had to make a copy of the key and leave it where not even Dudley could forget it. Technically, I'm not supposed to know it's here."

"And I suppose an alohomora is beyond your grasp?"

"Sure, Snape, and give those twats at the Ministry cause to snap my wand? I don't think so."

"I meant by me, you lackluster halfwit!"

Harry didn't bother to respond to that. He merely unlocked the back door and put the key back into the fake rock. When he stood back up, he noticed that Snape was still watching him. "Well? What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Go on, Snape. This is your chance to see how well the Boy-Who-Lived is thought of by his _adoring_ family. Take a look, Snape. See all the pictures, the mementos, the veritable _shrine_ to me. It's what you're expecting, isn't it?"

Snape brushed past Harry, muttering under his breath. Harry thought it sounded like 'Merlin save me from melodramatic teenage fools,' but he wasn't sure. He followed his professor, a confusing mix of anger and amusement lurking in his expression.

* * *

**A/N2:** I started writing this story several years ago. I got to this chapter, and then the muse went off on a world-tour. The next chapter is where I managed to get back into it. I hope there isn't too much of a discrepancy in the writing style.

Thakee kindly to all who review and to all who simply read. I hope you continue to enjoy this tale.


	7. Life is Complicated

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Wowzer. This fic is getting far more attention than I'd figured on. Thankee kindly, everyone, an' I hope y'all keep reading!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Six: Life is Complicated  
_

Severus wasn't sure what the boy was after, but decided to humor him; he hadn't forgotten the incident in the kitchens and had no desire to repeat that encounter. Entering the house, he paused for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the interior. He was standing in a spotless kitchen. It didn't have much in the way of personality, merely a couple of mass-produced prints on the walls, a formica breakfast table, and some cast-iron skillets of varying sizes hanging on a wall rack over the hob. The refrigerator hummed noisily in its corner, sporting a handful of plastic butterfly magnets and a hand cloth buttoned to the handle. From where he stood, he could see the dining room through an open archway; it promised to be just as dull, just as mass-produced as the kitchen, so he ignored it.

"Get your things, Potter. We don't have all day," he said, stepping lightly across the linoleum.

Harry sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I told you already, there's nothing here for me." When that statement resulted is a sole arched eyebrow aimed in his direction, Harry felt a surge of annoyance. "Fine. Whatever. I'll just go upstairs, then."

"Be back within five minutes," was all Snape had to say to that.

Harry quickly removed himself from the kitchen. Severus waited until the sound of footsteps disappeared before allowing himself a chance to poke around. His suspicions about the dining room were proved true and he bypassed it without lingering very long. The living room was similarly lacking in any sort of true character. It reminded him of nothing so much as the set dressing to a play. He was honestly surprised to find that the small set of shelves built into the wall to one side of the fireplace actually housed _real_ books – though he'd eat his own cloak if they'd ever actually been read. The only intriguing aspect of the horribly tacky room was that all the framed photographs on the walls were of a family of _three_ when not of solely the lumbering fat boy he'd seen most recently in Potter's memories. There was no sign whatsoever that a second boy had lived in the house for the last fourteen years and some-odd months.

Realizing that he'd lingered quite some time and that the taxi wasn't going to wait forever, he headed for the stairs. He noticed a door with several locks on it at one end of the hall and figured it was storage – though the cat-flap was puzzling – and turned the other direction. The first door he tried proved to be the bathroom. The second was an extraordinarily messy bedroom that smelled of feet, rancid food, and feral teenage boy. He could only hope that it wasn't Potter's room.

Harry was in the hall when Snape removed himself from Dudley's first bedroom, a large pair of black-handled scissors in hand and a light smirk on his face. _I know it's petty, but I actually had fun cutting holes into all of Aunt Petunia's prize linens. And I can just _see_ the frustrated confusion on ol' Dudder's face when he goes to try to turn on his computer when they get back. If I had the time, I'd catch a bunch of cockroaches and turn them loose in his room, too. Maybe then he'd learn to pick up after himself._

His thoughts stilled when he noticed the potions professor staring at him. "I trust," Snape said, "that this," he nodded towards Dudley's room, "is not yours."

"No," Harry replied, keeping his voice somewhat civil by force of will alone, "it's not." He pointed at each door as he named their purpose, "That's Dudley's first bedroom. That one is the guest room, though the only guest they ever have is Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge. That one is Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's room. The bathroom is there. And that last one at the end of the hall is Dudley's second bedroom, where they have oh-so-graciously allowed me to sleep during the summers since starting at Hogwarts. Before Hogwarts, I slept in the cupboard under the stairs." Harry was pretty sure that all this would come back to haunt him when school resumed, but just then he couldn't care less. In all honesty, he was getting used to being the center of attention while at school; with his luck, though, everyone would pass this information off as just another rumor. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got one thing left to do and then we can leave." Before Snape could reply, Harry hurried down the stairs.

Severus allowed himself to take a quick look into the room with the door sporting the numerous locks and the cat-flap. A small bed, the frame of which was held up with a stack of books on one end, was wedged into the far corner of the room between a rickety-looking old wooden desk and the wall. The rest of the room's floor space was crammed with haphazardly stacked piles of junk. He spotted a bent BB gun, numerous broken toys, and cartons of comic books among the detritus. The bed and desk were the only areas of the room which were even remotely presentable. The bed was made up as best as could be with a single moth-eaten blanket and no sheets or pillows. The desk, close enough to the bed so that a chair wasn't needed, had a few worn-looking books on one corner – a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a book on writing essays – and an empty jar of ink on the other. A forgotten quill rested on top the stack of books.

A loud crashing sound came from the vicinity of the dining room, startling Snape into leaving the crowded room as quickly as he was able. When he arrived in the dining room, he saw Potter standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching something small and grinning at the now-overturned china hutch. The hutch had landed so that the upper edge of it had hit the table, allowing the contents of its shelves to slide out and shatter on the floor. Potter's gaze tore itself from the mess and looked up to Snape. "We can go now."

Frowning, but not scowling, Snape looked from the mess of shattered china to Potter's face. "Why?" was all he asked.

A twisted smirk surfaced on the teen's face. "Because I was never good enough to eat from the heirloom china, yet always had to wash it for them. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd blow out the pilot lights on the stove and turn the gas on high before we go. Leave it up to fate to decide whether or not the house is still standing when they get back from Fiji."

"And what is that you're carrying?"

"The only thing from this whole house that I know for a fact belonged to my mother," he replied. He opened his hand to display a tiny angel statuette. It was no childish cherub knickknack and Snape recognized it immediately. He'd given it to Lily for her thirteenth birthday – he'd sold essays all year long in order to afford it. The statuette was only about three or four inches high, carved from alabaster, and depicted the savage beauty of one of God's warriors, with sword raised high. Potter's hand closed gently around the statue at the sound of the taxicab's horn. "Can we go now?"

Snape nodded and motioned for the teen to precede him. His mind was racing, but still had enough leftover computing power to recognize a good idea when he heard it. He paused in the kitchen long enough to douse the pilot lights on the gas stove, crank all the dials up to 'high', and unplug the refrigerator on his way by. If the house didn't explode, whatever was left in the icebox was sure to be only one short generation from sentience by the time the Dursleys returned from their trip.

Potter was waiting by the cab. "Where to now?" he asked.

"Heathrow," Snape replied, sliding back into the taxi. He repeated the instruction to the cabbie once Potter had joined him.

Though he could tell the teen wanted to ask why they were going to the airport, he thankfully refrained from speaking. Severus had much to mull over.

Unlike the vast majority of people, Snape didn't think in words. He never had. It always took him a moment to 'translate', so-to-speak, from the images and impressions which comprised his thoughts to spoken or written communication. This was the main contributing factor to his success as a master occlumens; after all, how can someone read one's thoughts when those thoughts only truly made sense to their thinker? For example, his mental image for a word so simple as 'at' was a black circle on a white background. 'The' was very similar, only it was filled-in – a dot, rather than an 'o'. The more complicated the word, the more complicated the image. And these images weren't strictly visual, they encompassed all senses. Unless the thoughts were such that he dearly wished to say them aloud, most of what he thought didn't even reach sub-vocalization.

During the silent and relatively long – rush hour traffic had picked up – ride to the airport, the vast majority of Severus' thoughts were not translatable to words. Impressions and observations of the Dursleys' house ricocheted off of what he'd seen in Potter's mind over the year and their interaction in the school kitchen. Conclusions were beginning to form, like the thin panes of ice on October puddles, and he didn't much care for what they were saying.

_Is it possible? Could I have been wrong about the Gryffindor Golden Boy?_

Unaware of the uncomfortable nature of his professor's thoughts, Harry simply watched the scenery flow by the window. He wanted to ask where they were going and why they were going by muggle means, but he refrained. The last thing he wanted was Snape to start in on him again. He'd had enough of _that_ to last the rest of his life, thank you very much! Instead, he chewed over the issue of the obliviate he was carrying. _If I'm right, and it is a copy of Voldemort's memories that it's blocking, I have to wonder if there's a way to… Not remove it. Neville's right, I don't think this world could handle two Dark Lords. So, not remove it, but… Lift the veil a little. Let me see what it contains without having it affect me. At least, not so much that I'm not still me when all is said and done. Maybe I can figure out a way to, I don't know, drain it off into a journal or diary like the one that took over Ginny, only with some sort of safeguard in place to keep it from being able to do that again._

Further musings by either of the taxi's passengers was interrupted by their arrival at the airport. Snape paid the cabbie and motioned for Potter to stick close. They bypassed the main terminal and went in through a door off to the side that most of the crowd of travelers simply didn't notice. It was a branch office of the Department of Magical Transportation, staffed by a pale, tweedy guy in his mid-twenties. "Destination?" he asked, without looking up from the forms he was filling in.

"Radcliffe, outside Manchester," Snape replied. "Radcliffe Station will do, if you've a ready-made portkey available."

The man shuffled a few papers around and nodded. "Aye, one-way, single use. Three galleons, two sickles, eight knuts, please."

Snape rummaged in his pockets for a moment before coming up with the required coins. On handing them over, the man behind the counter ducked out of sight and came up with a mustard-stained paper napkin. "Activation phrase is on your receipt," he said, handing over a hand-written slip of parchment. Presumably it was the receipt.

Severus glanced at the parchment before tucking it away. "Come along, then," he said, holding the napkin out to Harry. Harry sighed and juggled his trunk and Hedwig's cage so that he could grab a corner of the bit of trash, too. He had time to reflect on how much he despised portkeys before Snape uttered the activation phrase.

Harry landed, as always, in a rather useless heap on a cold tile floor. A smirking woman, a good deal older than Snape, greeted the professor. "Good e'en, Master Snape. You're later than your usual."

"Evening, Annabeth. Slow day?"

The witch gestured to the echoingly empty train station. "Bustling as ever, Severus, can't you tell?" The portkey arrival point was protected from casual muggle observation by an obfuscation charm, but was otherwise open to the station. "Most folks these days tend to drive themselves. Only a few morning and evening commuters still take the train. I'm sure, sometime in the next few years, the train'll stop coming here altogether."

Harry had to do a double-take when his professor actually _smiled_ at the woman. "I'm certain you are correct, Annabeth. However, I do need to get home. Good night."

"And to you as well, Severus," the woman replied, returning her attention to the crossword puzzle from that morning's _Daily Prophet_.

The napkin was tossed in a rubbish bin and before Harry could even begin to formulate any questions, Snape's hand landed on his shoulder and suddenly he couldn't breathe as he was forced through an infinitely tiny tube of magic. Only the distinctive _pop_ of the world snapping back into being around them in an entirely new configuration told Harry that he'd just been apparated to their next stop.

Since he hadn't wound up on his ass, he figured it was his second-favorite method of magical transportation. Brooms were still number one on that list. "Where are we?" he asked, staring at a rather run-down two-story house in a slightly overgrown lot, bordered by a crumbling rock wall.

"About eight miles north of Manchester," Snape replied, opening the rusty gate set into the wall. A flagstone path wound its way among the weeds to a porch which looked like it was one heavy footstep from collapsing entirely. "We will be staying here tonight and possibly tomorrow night as well."

Severus strode up the path to the front door. He rapped on a dark discoloration in the doorframe with his wand before reaching for a tarnished brass knob. Harry took care to walk lightly on the aged wood of the porch and grimaced a little when it squeaked ominously under his feet. The door squealed open, and Snape flicked his wand into the shadows of the house. A cobwebby chandelier containing a half-dozen candles lit itself, revealing a shabby, dust-covered sitting room, furnished with a threadbare sofa and armchair, a rickety-looking coffee table, and more books than Harry could count. A spindly staircase stood off to Harry's left. _This is an Order safe-house? No wonder they use Grimmauld Place for their meetings!_ Harry thought while following Snape inside. He gingerly sat his trunk down next to the door and placed Hedwig's cage on top of it, then watched as the professor aimed his wand at the sofa, followed by the armchair. The dust disappeared. _I wasn't aware that you could cast spells without saying the words._ The scourgify spells were followed by a silent incendio that set the brick fireplace blazing.

Next, Snape strode over to one object that Harry hadn't been expecting to see. An old rotary telephone hung on the wall, next to an archway which lead into shadows. He picked up the receiver and dialed a number from memory, causing Potter to once again wonder just how it was that his professor knew how to work the bit of muggle gadgetry. It had surprised him enough that Snape had finished his call before Harry realized the man had ordered delivery for their dinner.

"Quit gawping, Potter," Snape scolded. "Surely even _you_ know how to use a telephone."

"Yeah," Harry shook his head. "Sorry, but I wasn't expecting there to be one here."

One of the professor's eyebrows crept higher than the other. "And, pray tell, why not?"

Harry shrugged. "Didn't figure that an Order safe-house would have anything muggle is all."

The eyebrow inched even higher. "Who said this was an Order safe-house?"

Harry's mouth snapped shut with a click of teeth. _Oh. This is Snape's place. Explains all the dust, since he lives at Hogwarts ten months out of the year._ "No one. I just assumed. Sorry."

Snape inclined his head in the barest of nods in Harry's direction. "I do not possess a 'guest room', Potter. You will have to make do with the couch. The headmaster will be by at his earliest convenience to provide us with a portkey to take us to the safe-house. He was not specific as to when we would expect him, hence the uncertainty of whether it shall be one night or two that we remain here."

"May I let Hedwig out?" Harry asked.

"So long as she returns before we need to leave. I would suggest moving her cage to the back stoop." Snape ducked into the archway and before long another ceiling-mounted candle holder blazed into life, revealing a stout butcher-block table and two slightly-rusted metal folding chairs. The corner of a counter could barely be seen from Harry's position, and so he felt safe in assuming that it lead to the house's kitchen.

Harry carefully walked over to the archway, still not quite trusting of the stability of the house's floor boards. He poked his head around the arch and saw his assumptions were correct. A screen door stood next to the icebox on the far side of the room. Snape was poking his wand into an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, presumably to get it to light. A shiny teakettle sat on the stove's surface. _Why doesn't he simply use magic to heat the tea? It's not like _he_ can't use magic on hols._

Hermione's voice chose that moment to speak up inside Harry's mind. _Come on, Harry, use your brain! Honestly! Warming charms wear off after an hour or two, and the forecast for tonight from the taxi's radio said it was going to get down to sixteen degrees. _Harry frowned at the imagined voice. _Can't I have a single day's peace?_ He shook his head to chase away the uncomfortable feeling that, not only was he arguing with _himself_, but he was _losing_ said argument. Instead of chasing thoughts around inside his head, he decided to let Hedwig out for the night.

He picked up the cage and ducked around both the archway and Snape without earning any glares, then exited the shabby house by the kitchen door. The back yard proved to be just as overgrown and neglected as the front. He opened Hedwig's cage and the snowy barked at him in approval – or perhaps it was chastisement for having waited so long – before winging off into the gathering gloom of evening.

Having a figment of his imagination take on Hermione's voice turned his thoughts towards his best female friend. _Defigo Veritas… I can tell that it's got something to do with the truth. It was set in place… Hmm… That's interesting. Pretty sure if I did the arithmetic on it, it would have been set in place on the first day of our first year at Hogwarts._ Harry slid his backpack off his shoulders and sat on the stairs that lead down from the house's back door. He was far happier about these stairs than any of the others he'd seen on the property; they were built out of cinderblocks. He opened the small, padded pocket which contained his computer and pulled the bit of magical electronica out. It booted quickly as always. Employing the search feature, he typed in 'Defigo Veritas' and patiently waited for results to come back.

There were nearly a dozen books housed within the computer's endless memory which referenced the phrase. Three of them looked more promising than the others, so Harry opened the file titled Mental Magics, Maladies, Curses, and Treatments. The program opened to chapter seventeen of the book: _Rare Maladies of Unbalanced Minds_. Harry couldn't help but feel that the title was rather ominous.

_Having covered thus far the average wizard's mental stability in conjunction with the disciplines of Occlumency, Legilimency, and whilst under such curses as the Imperius, Confundus, and other such mind-altering spells, we now turn our attention to a handful of known maladies which mimic many of the curses discussed previously._

_It should be noted that none of the maladies discussed in this chapter are, in and of themselves, solely rooted to the magical world – should this topic be of particular interest, muggle literature can be found which discusses these issues at length. Appendix D19 contains a thorough, though not all-inclusive, list of recommended reading._

Harry skimmed through the chapter until his eyes lit on 'Defigo Veritas'. He then back-tracked until he found the start of its subsection of the chapter. He felt gooseflesh creep down his spine at the section's header, and the feeling expanded until he felt he was dunked in ice water by the time he was finished reading it.

_**Schizophrenia**_

_Much like the other maladies discussed in this chapter, schizophrenia was not known as anything other than 'madness' until the advent of psychiatric medicine and its wizarding counterpart of mind healing in the early 1900s. The term itself was first coined in 1908, by squib Eugen Bleuler _(1)_. He originally utilized the term (from Greek roots skhizein – 'to split' and phren – 'mind') to describe a symptomatic separation of the functionality of memory, perception, personality, and thinking. Unfortunately, due to the terminology he coined, this malady is often confused with Multiple Personality Disorder (also known as Dissociative Identity Disorder). Please do not fall into the trap of taking the root meaning of this illness at face value; it is wholly different, both in function and form, from its close-cousin._

_To this day, schizophrenia remains a little-understood mental malady. The reason behind this is due to its case-by-case presentation of symptoms. Most commonly, it affects men between the ages of 18 and 24, though extensive research shows it by no means 'avoids' women, children, older adults, or the elderly. Its causes seem to likewise be as diverse as the people it affects; in some cases, the malady appears to run along family bloodlines, in other cases, it stems from recreational drug usage. There have even been cases wherein symptoms of this illness have been triggered by some sort of physical damage to the brain (see appendix D24 for three case-studies of individuals with this illness wherein the root cause was known)._

_If this disease is so unique to each of its victims, how then are healers able to spot it? Despite the individual and the root cause in each case, schizophrenia's character shines through. It encompasses a breakdown of thought processes and poor emotional responsiveness, which most commonly manifests as hallucinations, delusions, disorganized speech or thinking, and is nearly always accompanied by significant social dysfunction._

Harry blinked at that. He simply couldn't see Hermione, of all people, exhibiting any of the symptoms which the book discussed. He skimmed through the rest of the discussion on what schizophrenia was and how to spot it. Eventually, he reached the segment on treating it.

_Treatment of this illness within the muggle world relies heavily on usage of antipsychotic medications (read: potions), but within the wizarding world potions have had little to no effect. Instead, Master Healer Gideon Armsmythe created a breakthrough charm known as Defigo Veritas (more commonly referred to as the 'reality anchor'; the wand motion, incantation, and a full list of conditionals can be found within appendix ZXR27) in 1976. The charm mitigates many of the symptoms of the disease, forcing the patient's mind to ignore any stimulus that is not traceable to actual sensory input. The only negative side-effect currently known is that it reverses so completely the symptom of disorganization that it often leads to nearly obsessive behavior on the part of the patient._

Harry had to blink at the text once more. _Yeah, I can definitely see 'obsessive'. Color-coded study schedules are _not_ normal._ He finished the chapter's subsection at about the same time that he heard the back door open behind him. "Dinner is here," Snape said, his voice nearly toneless.

Harry nodded. "Be in in a moment," he said, closing the program he had open. He made a mental note to come back to it and see what the other books had to offer before assuming that Hermione was nuts.

* * *

**A/N2:** The information regarding schizophrenia is paraphrased from Wikipedia sources, so if any of it isn't right, y'all know why (discounting, of course, it's application in the wizarding world).

1. Eugen Bleuler is a real person, and I ought to mention that I've used him somewhat fictitiously (without permission, of course) in this chapter – I made him a squib. Sorry.

Sixteen degrees centigrade is slightly less than sixty degrees fahrenheit.

Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read the odd ramblings of my rather odd brain.


	8. Thoughts Like Root Canal

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** And here's another installment for your reading pleasure!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Seven: Thoughts Like Root-Canal_

Supper turned out to be pot roast and bread pudding from a small restaurant only a couple of miles away. It was edible, but compared with similar offerings from Hogwarts' kitchen, it was definitely lacking. Snape served the styrofoam containers on the butcher-block table. The pair ate in silence, each occupied by his own thoughts.

_Potter's relatives' home is not quite what I'd pictured,_ Severus speared a chunk of slightly too-dry roast to punctuate his mental ramblings. _Soulless and mass-produced, certainly, but… To be shunted into a corner of a storage room, like a broken toy… Is Albus aware of the conditions in which he expects his Gryffindor Hero to live? _The sheer lack of anything in the house – he refused point-blank to even _consider_ the word 'home' – remotely relating to the green-eyed Gryffindor in question told a stark tale; one which Severus was not entirely comfortable perusing, not even within the confines of his own skull.

Snape could admit, even if only to himself, that his own childhood had been far from stellar. Yet, even with a drunken asshole for a father and a shattered mockery of a mother, he'd had a room of his own. Certainly, it didn't contain much. Tobias Snape could never afford much. But it had been _his_. _His_ books on the shelf above _his_ bed. _His_ desk crammed with various oddments and old homework. _His_ cauldron and potions kit sitting on _his_ trunk at the foot of _his_ bed. _His _posters and pictures on the walls. Had anyone other than his family ever seen it, they would have been able to identify the space as belonging to Severus and no one else. The same could not be said for Potter's bedroom in Surrey.

_Indeed, if anyone were to tour that house, no one would even suspect that Potter actually lives there. Could that be why Albus placed him there?_ He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before discarding the notion. _Surely not. The lack of evidence of Potter's residence at that house is not, I believe, something that the old man considered in selecting a placement for the boy._ The memory of his confrontation with said 'boy' in the Hogwarts kitchens flashed through his mind, almost as though it were a protest of the term. _No, despite what I may wish, Potter is not a boy any more than I am. I have the sinking suspicion that, regardless of Albus' intentions, Potter hasn't truly been a child since he was left at that house in Little Whinging. _What Potter had said, about the incidents he'd witnessed during their occlumency sessions the previous year _not_ being isolated in nature flashed through his mind. _With the chaotic nature of Potter's mind, it is likely those scenes I witnessed were merely the tip of the iceberg._ Tension crept into his mind, a precursor to a headache. _It seems that I will need to look into this in greater detail. With luck, I may yet find evidence that will lay these suspicions to rest._ He didn't hope for that, though. He'd never been a great believer in luck.

Across the table from Severus, Harry picked at his meal. _I wonder if Defigo Veritas is used for anything else? I mean, sure Hermione's a bit on the obsessive-compulsive side, but… Schizophrenic? Surely not. And what of that other spell, the ultimate rule or whatever it was? She didn't know what it was when I asked. And the obliviate, if I'm reading the situation correctly, is probably blocking her memories of discussing me with Dumbledore. _Harry shook his head slightly and poked a chunk of potato with his fork. _Hermione's behavior on the train is worrying. I don't think I've ever seen her so… un-curious, especially not about spells and magic. _He sighed and absently chewed the potato chunk, idly noting that it would be better if the cook had added a bit more pepper. _And I'm beginning to wish I'd used exibeo magus on Neville, too, just to be on the safe side… But Mu – damn it. LILY. Lily seemed okay with me talking with Neville. Enough so that she recommended I give him one of those communication watches/earrings. Probably the only thing I'll find in Neville will be that trace Hermione said was on everyone underage. _Something dawned on Harry. _I don't have a trace. Does that mean I'd be able to do magic with my wand, even though I'm not yet seventeen?_

Harry sipped at the glass of water which Snape had sat with the takeout box. _I probably could. I mean, I know the Ministry picked up on the levitation Dobby used before second year, and the patronus last summer, but could it be that they're simply monitoring the area and not me personally? I mean, it's not like I ever go anywhere when I'm there. Sure, they dump me on Mrs. Figg, but she's only a few blocks away. The only time I can remember the Dursleys taking me _anywhere_ was the zoo for Dudley's birthday. Would there be any way of checking on this? Without getting that trace thing set on me as a result, I mean. Hmm… Normally, I'd go to Hermione with this, but until I find out what that one ultimate spell is, I don't think I should. Who else would be of a mind to help me? Should I contact Neville with this? Or wait for Lily to get back in touch with me?_

Incrementally slowly, both of the current occupants of the house at the end of Spinner's Row, Radcliffe worked through both their thoughts and their rather bland dinners.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Gillingham, Hermione Granger had already finished her own supper and was in her bedroom, staring into her vanity mirror. Her room hadn't changed much since she started at Hogwarts: the walls were still pale yellow, the trim still dark green, with lacy curtains on the window that matched the draperies surrounding her four-poster canopy bed; unlike the beds at school, her bed at home was larger, and the frame was white-painted metal, not heavy wood. She curled her bare toes into the nap of carpet which was the same dark green as the trim and closed her eyes.

Even without her vision, she could still clearly 'see' the room with her vanity in one corner, her desk under the window, a single freestanding bookshelf in the opposite corner, and an ornate heirloom dollhouse taking pride-of-place in the corner nearest the door. A wardrobe stood sentinel next to the door to her bathroom. All the furniture was white, with yellow or green (or both) accents. The contents of her bookshelf reflected a lifetime of having lived in the same house – Dr. Seuss and Whinnie-the-Pooh transitioned into Louisa May Alcott, Charles Dickens, and William Shakespeare, punctuated by framed photographs, stuffed animals, and other knickknacks. Her old textbooks and other magical tomes were kept in her trunk at the foot of her bed unless she was using them. Though she'd never had a sleepover, her grandparents were frequent visitors, and the Statute of Secrecy allowances made for her parents didn't apply to them.

_It had to happen sometime._ She opened her eyes and once again studied her reflection in the mirror, searching for some outward sign that she could point to and say, "Here it is! This is why!" Yet again, no such sign appeared. _Though I wish Harry hadn't started poking around, I'm relieved it was him and not one of the professors. Imagine if this got out! _As it stood, only two people in the magical world knew about Hermione's 'little issue' – Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey. _I know that, at the time, I hated having to wait almost an entire year before being allowed to go to Hogwarts, but right now I simply don't care any longer._ Professor McGonagall had shown up on her eleventh birthday, about an hour after she'd received her Hogwarts letter, to explain to the muggle family that no, it wasn't a prank, and to provide details about the magical world.

Hermione's eyes drifted down to the necklace she wore underneath her clothes. It was a simple gold chain and she certainly could have worn it out where everyone could see it, but since it housed the spell cementing her awareness of reality, Hermione was rather paranoid about it getting snagged and breaking. She'd never taken it off, save once, since it was presented to her shortly before boarding the train on that first day of school. The one time she'd removed it had been when she was getting ready for the Yule Ball in fourth year, and even then, it had only been removed long enough to wind it around her ankle; at no time did she allow it to leave skin-contact.

_Maybe I've grown out of it._ The idea was one she'd had before. _I mean, they said it was because of that car crash we were in when I was little, when I knocked my head so hard._ She reached through her hair and felt the thin, twisting scar which was her only physical memento of the evening a drunk driver had plowed into the Grangers on the M2 freeway. _I was only four, after all. It could be that whatever damage the crash caused has finally had a chance to fully heal._ Again, she'd had these thoughts before, but even so, she'd not previously acted on them; she hadn't dared. But Harry discovering she was under defigo veritas, even though he had no idea what it was for, lent her a dose of bravery. Her hand dropped from her hair to the clasp of the golden chain, quickly joined by her other hand.

She undid the clasp and removed the necklace, though she held it before her in hands that shook. It hung in a broad U shape, dangling innocently from her grasp. She looked at its reflection before staring into her own eyes once more. When she noticed its trembling, she could hear Ginny's voice echoing in her head, _Are you a Gryffindor or not?_ Hermione smiled and collected the chain in her right hand. She deposited it in a tiny pile on the surface of her vanity, next to her hairbrush.

"Why'd you do that, Hermione? Why'd you send me away?" an accusatory voice sounded right behind her.

Hermione whirled around, nearly falling from her stool in the process. The owner of the voice, though two years her junior, was nearly identical to her in every feature, save three: The girl was blonde, like Gramma Granger had been when young; her eyes were the same dull hazel color of Hermione's mother; and the girl's front teeth had obviously never been subjected to treatment by Madam Pomfrey.

"I know you couldn't take me to school with you – I wasn't old enough yet, but how come you sent me away like that? Didn't you love me any more?"

Even though she knew the girl wasn't really there, was just a figment crafted by her own broken brain, Hermione couldn't help but feel guilty. "Oh, Emilia… I'm sorry," she whispered. She opened her arms and was engulfed by a hug from Emilia Granger – the girl she'd grown up assuming was her baby sister, and who her parents had assumed was an imaginary friend until Minerva McGonagall learned of it and brought it to Madam Pomfrey's attention.

The necklace glinted from its place on the vanity, but Hermione paid it no mind. She'd not seen Emilia for going on six years. She didn't care that the girl wasn't real to anyone else; Hermione had missed her sister.

* * *

Back at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore indulged his sweet-tooth while musing on his plans. _I am in complete agreement with Severus – the last thing this world needs is another harpy. However, what sorts of issues might this cause my plans for the upcoming year? And it is a shame that the Dursleys won't be available until August. I'd hoped to get Harry's required time under the blood protections out of the way early this year. As much as I would prefer it to be otherwise, Horace will simply not listen to just me about coming back to Hogwarts to teach. Since all staff positions for the upcoming school year must be filed with the Board of Governors and the Ministry no later than the end of July, I fear this means I will need to postpone appointing Severus to the Defense position._

Fawkes trilled to himself and set to preening another feather. Unknown to the wizard in the room, the phoenix was contemplating his own thoughts. _I fear BrightOne's beginning to dim. _The thought was not reflective of power-levels but morality. The scarlet bird finally managed to get all his breast feathers cleaned and moved on to his right wing. _He once burned so brightly it cast shadows even on fledglings and eyases. _The phoenix peered at the wizard. _Yes, it is dimming. Not yet dark, but it will be soon, lest he realizes his fire wanes._

Unfortunately, very few people had the capacity for self-awareness of that level. Headmaster Dumbledore was not one of them.

Dumbledore popped another peppermint into his mouth and worried at it with his teeth without actually biting through it. _I wish I had spent more time around Gabrielle when she was here, it would have given me a better read on her personality. But it is of little consequence. She is here simply to approach her mate. I wonder who it is?_ A quick list of everyone who had been in attendance, insofar as he could recall, flashed through his mind. _From what I understand of veela magic, the mate-bond will ignore any member of the same sex as well as all those who have not yet reached puberty. _Roughly one third of the male faces on his list were mentally crossed out at the thought. _Furthermore, it will not chose a male who is more than five years different in age._ The list pared down even further. _And though there have been exceptions, it tends to select highly intelligent and powerful individuals. Of all who were here that day, I can only come up with six names which fit all the criteria, and top of the list is Roger Davies of Ravenclaw. Speaking of, I need to remember to inform Minerva that he will be this year's Head Boy. Back to Miss Delacour, however... Will it be necessary to place her under the authority spell? _He shook his head._ No, I don't believe so, not unless her presence proves too much of a distraction for Harry. Just in case, though, I will need to see how it will interact with her unique magics. It wouldn't do at all for the spell to be overridden, should it become necessary, simply because of her unique magic._

Pushing aside thoughts of the veela girl, Albus returned to considering the Defense posting for the upcoming year. _Since I will not have the chance to coax Horace back into teaching Potions, then I will not be able to give Severus the Defense posting. I refuse to allow the Ministry to fill the position – their choice makes Quirrell look like a shining example of teacherly perfection! No, no Ministry involvement is allowable. It's such a shame that rumors of the curse on the position have leaked out. Before that happened, I had potential teachers practically begging for the honor of being a Hogwarts professor, even if only for one year._ He sighed. _Ah, no sense crying over spilled milk. It's too bad that Kingsley has repeatedly turned down the position and Nymphadora is too young yet. Hmm… I wonder if I could convince Alastor to take the position? The curse wouldn't act on him, as Crouch was the one who actually taught all that year. I didn't ask him for this year simply because he was still recovering from having spent ten months in that trunk of his. Who else should I approach, just in case Alastor says no? _The fact that it was a curse on the position made him pause for a moment_. Yes, that might do. The oldest Weasley child has had a solid ten years' experience in curse-breaking. Perhaps he could be convinced to take the position. Indeed, he might be a better choice than Alastor. Much as Alastor's fighting ability would benefit Harry in the conflicts to come, the curse on the position is far more aggravating at this point in time. Weasley might be able to break the curse. Even if he doesn't manage to do so, he would also provide a unique insight into defensive magics which would benefit all Hogwarts students. Yes, I'll offer the position to him for this year, and see if Alastor would be willing to tutor Harry during off hours. Then next year, if the curse is still in place, I'll see if Alastor will take the position.  
_

Smiling to himself, Albus reached for a piece of blank parchment and a quill.

* * *

Of the three wizarding homes in Ottery St. Catchpole, only one was still bustling as ever in the hours immediately following nightfall. The Burrow, though it was down by two permanent members, always seemed busy – particularly since Fred and George still took their meals at home, even though they had moved directly to a flat above their new joke shop in Diagon Alley. After supper, the twins had dragged Ron off to play two-on-one quidditch in the orchard, while Molly and Arthur discussed the ramifications of the recent events at the Ministry. Ginny had begged off quidditch, wanting to get her summer homework done early.

And so she sat on her bed, using her transfiguration text as a lap-desk, with her charms text open next to her and an essay containing only a title poised under her quill. _I wish I'd gotten the chance to say bye to Harry at the station today. I know he hates having to return to his muggle relatives' for the summer. _Ginny frowned and glanced at her essay. _Ah, the essay can wait. I've got something more important to do._

She sat the empty essay aside and grabbed a blank parchment. She put down the date in the upper right corner, then wrote, _Dear Harry_. She chewed on her lip for a long minute before continuing. Her mother knocked on her door just after she signed her name at the end of her letter. "Bedtime, Ginny."

"Okay, Mum," Ginny called out. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, dear. Sleep well."

She waited until her mom's footsteps indicated she'd retreated to her own room before reading over her letter. Nodding, she folded it and slid it into an envelope, making a mental note to see if Ron would let her borrow Pig to send it. She then changed into her nightclothes and doused the lamp.

_I hope he believes me,_ was her only thought before she fell asleep.

* * *

**A/N2:** I'm a little insecure with the bit from Dumbledore's POV - I'm not sure if I should continue to check in with the old man or not, so make sure to chime in with your two cents. Thanks for reading!


	9. Day One

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Okay, from now on, the updates will come a little slower. I'm going to try to stay three chapters ahead in my writing so things can continue at a reasonable pace. I'm not going to promise when updates will come, though - every time I do that, my muse runs away. Just a warning.

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Eight: Day One_

Harry didn't sleep well on Snape's archaic sofa. Dreams and memories kept chasing each other through his mind, startling him awake at odd hours, but not quite devolving into nightmares at any point. He eventually gave up trying to sleep. In the grey light of predawn, he snuck out onto the cement stairs of the back stoop and watched the sky slowly lighten.

_What now?_ he thought. _What do I do now? If I can't trust Dumbledore, with Voldemort after me, what do I do? _The first chirp of morning birdsong sounded from within a tangled mass of an overgrown shrub off to his right. _Well, Potter, take it back to it's basics. I'm under a prophesy to either kill or be killed by Voldemort. And though nothing else Lily has told me has been proven false, I don't quite understand why I can't trust Dumbledore. _Frowning, Harry cast his eyes upwards. A fluffy cloud was perceptible in the sky directly above him, faintly tinged pink on a dark grey-blue background. Bit by bit, color was beginning to leech back into the world. _Invert it, Potter. Does it still make no sense if you ask why you _should_ trust the headmaster?_

All his prior interactions with Dumbledore flashed through his brain. _Sadly, no. He's the one who left me with the Dursleys. He's the one who wouldn't give me a single straight answer until recently – and even now, I'm certain he's holding back. He's the one who insisted on those fucking occlumency lessons. He is supposed to have some sort of influence with the Ministry, yet he couldn't clear Sirius' name, nor could he stop them from prosecuting me for protecting myself. Sure, I may have gotten off, but if he was so influential, he should have been able to stop it before it got that far… It's almost like he _wanted_ it to happen. He's been orchestrating my life like it's some damnable chess match he's been playing. So, no. I can't trust him. Not to have my best interests at heart._

Hedwig winged down and landed on the rusty handrail next to Harry. "Morning, girl. Did you have a nice night?" he asked, reaching up to pet her.

The owl barked softly, preened a lock of his hair, and hopped from the rail onto his shoulder. "If you don't want to go back in your cage, I won't make you. Sometime today or tomorrow, though, I'll be heading for a different place. I don't know where. I know you're smart enough to find me, though." Hedwig nipped his ear, then flew up to perch in the branches of an oak tree that stood in the furthest corner of the yard. "I'll take that to mean you'd prefer to find me on your own." Harry smiled at the nearly-invisible form of his owl.

As his smile faded, he slipped back into his thoughts. _So, since I can't trust Dumbledore to be truly on my side, what else can I do?_ The answer was glaringly obvious. _I strike out on my own. Just how do I go about doing that, though? _The cloud above him acquired a golden hue. _I've got Dumbledore using me like an action figure. I've got Voldemort and his Death Eaters out for my blood. The Ministry seems to think – or did until they saw Voldemort with their own eyes – that I'm a borderline psychotic that's a threat to their authority. The press can't seem to leave me alone, nor to make up its mind whether I'm the good guy here or not. _Harry sighed. _I'm being attacked on all sides._ The sky finally lightened to normal blue as the first spears of sunlight slanted across the land.

_Well, maybe not quite _all_ sides. Lily seems to want to help stop Dumbledore and Voldemort, at least. I'd like to think it's because of me, but I'm pretty sure it's just because she's doing her job, and that she'd still be doing it, even if it had been Neville that Voldemort had marked instead of me. And speaking of Neville, he also seems to be on my side. It's too bad that's the sum of my allies at this moment. Presuming, of course, that the list Lily gave in the video is accurate._ Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. _This isn't really answering the question. How do I go up against all of this with my life intact? My sanity, too, should it come to that._

Since the weather wasn't inspiring any flashes of insight, Harry slipped back inside. The warmth was welcome, as the morning chill had numbed him somewhat, even if the house itself was not. He headed to the living room and retrieved his palmtop computer. It contained a relatively simple word processor, but after ten minutes of frustratingly slow hunt-and-peck typing on the diminutive keyboard, Harry gave up and snagged some blank parchment and his self-inking quill. Sitting on the floor and using the spindly coffee table as a desk, Harry set pen to paper and began writing, trying to organize his thoughts.

_Facts: As I am now, I have little hope of surviving should V. come after me._

_I have few people I can trust to turn to for help._

_According to Gringotts, I can certainly afford anything I might need or want to assist me on this._

_I needn't worry about the Dursleys for now, but Dumbledore has me staying with Snape until the Dursleys return._

_Questions: Just what is that ultimate spell I found on Hermione? It's not in any of the books contained in the library on the computer._

_How do I go about getting more training to survive what's coming without going through Dumbledore?_

_What did Lily mean during that last conversation? The static was so bad I couldn't hear what she said. Something about Snape's Dark Mark, I'm sure, but too much of it was obscured by the static._

Harry removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Who else can I ask for help?_ An idea wormed its way up from the depths of his subconscious. _The DA members owe me. I doubt anyone who wasn't in the DA will wind up with passing marks for their Defense OWL. How do I use this without alienating them, though? And who in the DA should I approach first?_

A face flashed through his mind and a little of Harry's tension bled away. He resettled his glasses on his face. _Yeah, I think I'll start there. Hufflepuffs have a thing about fair play, so maybe if I use that, I can get her on my side._

Harry retrieved a clean sheet of parchment and quickly scribbled out a letter. Once he finished, he read through it and made a few corrections. When he was happy with it, he recopied it in much neater handwriting and tossed the rough draft onto the coals in the fireplace, where it flared briefly into flame before flaking away into ash. Hearing movement come from upstairs, he realized that Snape was waking up. Quickly, he slid the letter into one of his last remaining envelopes and ducked out the back door. Hedwig took the letter and winged away, looking slightly irritated at being asked to deliver it when she'd only just gotten to sleep.

Harry had just finished cleaning up the evidence of how he'd spent his morning when Snape appeared. Forcing himself to be civil to the man, Harry greeted him. "Good morning."

Snape glared at him, but thankfully didn't say anything as he crossed the room to the kitchen. Not long afterwards, the scent of coffee brewing permeated the house. Harry sank onto the couch. _This is going to be a _long_ few weeks._

* * *

Gabrielle's nerves had her feeling alternatively queasy and excited about her trip to the UK. Granted, some of the nervy atmosphere was centered on hoping that neither of her parents managed to figure out how they'd been played, but the majority of it was in anticipation of the trip itself.

"Gabs, quit fretting. Your pacing is making me dizzy." Nicole looked up from her perusal of _Courrier International de la Magie_. "Don't worry so much. With my mother agreeing to the trip, and our departure set for bright and early tomorrow morning, it's not like it's going to be cancelled."

Gabrielle halted and shoved Nicole's feet off her sofa before plopping gracelessly onto the cushion. "I know, I know. I'm just nervous. I mean, what if he doesn't like me? And what if he's like the papers claim? What if he's not? What if he repudiates me? What if he's like the papers say and _doesn't _reject me? What if –"

"Stop it!" Nicole sat up. "Come on, Gabby, you know better than to play the 'what if' game. Calm down before I force a potion down your throat."

Gabrielle took a deep breath and held it for a long minute before letting it out slowly. Nicole was right. Worrying like this was only going to wind her into knots. "You're right," she said. "It's too late for our parents to change their minds about the trip. And I shouldn't stress about things outside of my own control."

Nicole smiled and laid her newspaper over the arm of the couch. "Come on, let's go do something fun."

"Like what?"

Nicole's smile broadened into a bright grin. "We could sneak into Disneyland for the day, like we did last summer."

The thought had appeal. Gabrielle mimicked Nicole's grin. "Why not?"

* * *

It was about noon when two pairs of identical eyes popped open at precisely the same moment. The owners of these eyes sat up, yawned and stretched, and nodded at one another in what seemed to be choreographed unison, but was really just a result of a lifetime of twindom. "I claim first loo," they said simultaneously. "Flip you for it."

As George had flipped the coin the day before, Fred grabbed it off the nightstand between their beds. "Call it in the air," he said.

"Wands," George replied.

It was wands, so George grinned and bounced out of bed. While his twin was getting ready for the day, Fred flooed the Leaky Cauldron and ordered their breakfasts. He ate his own while waiting, and was done at about the same time that George finally emerged. They traded places and Fred saw to his morning routine while George ate. Again, they finished at about the same time. Needs of the body attended to for the time being, they marched into their workshop and finished up packing the last of the Skiving Snackboxes.

Their inventory was roughly half-complete, from what they figured they would need for the month of August, and their notes for products they wanted to add kept getting thicker with every passing day. Unfortunately, the lease on their shop had run them significantly more than they'd anticipated and were rapidly running out of cash. Their choices were to either open early with only half the stock they wanted on hand, or to contact their silent partner to see if said partner would be willing to invest a little more cash.

Once the snackboxes were packaged and put into the store room, with a handful out on display, George and Fred donned their cloaks and apparated to a house they'd been to only a handful of times before: a plain, boxy, brown brick structure, sporting a brass number four near its front door, bordered on all sides by identical plain, boxy, brown brick structures.

They knocked on the front door and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

When it became obvious that no one was home, they surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone was looking before ducking into the back yard. An alohomora later and the pair were stepping into Petunia Dursley's spotless kitchen. Fred wrinkled his nose at the sulfurous stench that filled the room. "What _is_ that?"

"No idea, Gred," George replied, making his way across the linoleum. "It really does stink, though. Not as bad as a dungbomb, but close."

"Like rotten eggs," Fred muttered.

Eventually the pair wound up in the upstairs hallway, shooting glares at the door sporting multiple locks. "Five guesses as to which door's Harry's."

"I only need one."

George nodded, "Me, too."

While waiting for his twin to finish scribbling a note to Harry – they'd planned on leaving it on his bed for whenever he returned – Fred looked around their friend's bedroom. _We might have had to make do with hand-me-downs and second-hand furniture, but at least our stuff was always in pretty decent condition._ "Hmm…"

George glanced up. "What?"

Fred looked at him and smirked. "You have that bottle of PermaCharm on you?"

George patted his cloak's pockets. "Yeah." Fred wriggled his eyebrows. George grinned. "Yeah," he repeated.

The note ignored, the duo set to work.

Several hours later, the pair of wizards apparated home directly from the second floor hallway of number four, Privet Drive, unaware they'd forgotten to close the back door.

The note they'd left now resided on a carbon copy of the beds found in Gryffindor. A single drop of PermaCharm lent near-permanency to transfigurations and conjurations, needing reapplication only once a year or so. All of Dudley's broken toys had been banished. The desk was repaired and cleaned and sported a chair to match it, transfigured from an old, battered bird cage. The armoire likewise was repaired and cleaned to better suit the 'new' room. Wall-paper was charmed in Gryffindor colors, and draperies to match were conjured into being. Just about the only thing the pair hadn't tampered with was the overhead lighting fixture, and that was simply because they'd seen first-hand the kinds of effects magic had on muggle appliances, courtesy of their dad.

Harry's room wasn't the only one affected by the twins' visit. Dudley's room was carefully and thoroughly booby-trapped with some of their failed joke products (including an early version of the potion they used in Nosebleed Nougat which had the unfortunate side-effect of causing the imbiber's voice to sound like a house elf on helium). Petunia and Vernon's room had as many changes as Harry's, only in this case, they made sure that nothing _appeared_ out-of-place. The mattress, however, would now be harder than rock, and always smell faintly of ammonia. Clothing stored in the armoire or dresser would come out two sizes too small and coated in a light dusting of itching powder. The hamper was carefully charmed to automatically banish one half of every pair of socks that went into it. And so on.

All in all, the pair were quite pleased by their efforts, even if they were disappointed that they had been unable to speak with Harry himself.

* * *

"I don't like it any, but I agree with you." Hermione felt relieved at the admission and it showed in her posture. Emilia continued as though she hadn't noticed – she may not have, who can tell what an hallucination thinks? – "Even though I agree, though, I would like to say that I'm doing this under protest."

"Noted," Hermione replied. "But if you want to stay, you _have_ to."

Emilia nodded. "I know. I agreed not to bother you when other people were around, didn't I? I still don't have to like it any." Emilia flopped onto Hermione's bed. "Now that we've got that out of the way, what did you want to do?"

"Well, I have some summer homework I need to do," the brunette replied. "Once I get that done, then we'll go do something."

Emilia pouted. "Oh, come on! You've got the whole summer to do your homework. I haven't gotten to hang out with you in _forever_, what with you sending me away and all. _Please_, I'oh'nee," she used the mangled form of her sister's name on purpose, "let's go do something fun!"

Hermione bit her lip as her eyes darted back and forth between her sister and her school trunk. Emilia ramped up the sympathy-factor of her pout and Hermione folded. "Okay. How about we go see a movie? I've not been to the theater in _ages_."

Emilia perked up and grinned. "Sounds great!"

* * *

After a day spent working on his summer homework – as 'suggested' by Snape – while sitting on the back stoop, Harry had most of it completed. He was just putting the final touches on his essay for McGonagall with the last streaks of sunset painting the sky when Pigwidgeon nearly ricocheted off his head. Treating the slightly nutty owl like a feathery snitch, Harry quickly had him relieved of the letter he carried. He thanked the owl and apologized for his lack of treats. Pig didn't seem to care; the owl simply circled Harry's head a couple of times before flittering over to the tree Hedwig had used that morning.

Harry shook his head at the owl before turning his attention to his letter. It was from Ginny.

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm sorry I didn't get to tell you goodbye before we left Platform 9 ¾. After I saw you on the train, I got busy chatting with my other friends and before I knew it, we were in London. I tried to linger, but Mum was in a hurry to get home. I hope you manage to have a good holiday, even though I know you don't much care for your muggle family._

Harry snorted. _That's an understatement. I hate them, and the feeling is more than mutual._ He read onwards.

_Fred and George are leasing a shop in Diagon Alley – number 93. They have a flat above the shop and are supposedly living there, but they still apparate home for meals. Since I doubt either of them can cook, that's probably a good thing! They are working harder than I've ever seen, too. They want to have enough inventory ready so that they can open on the first of August, that way they can be ready for the Hogwarts rush. Mum and Dad are proud of them, but they're also disappointed and really worried, too. I know they wanted the twins to finish their schooling before striking out on their own – Dad, in particular, kept stressing how important it is to have a backup plan, just in case their joke shop isn't successful (I don't think he realized just how popular the twins' products are at school)._

Harry made a mental note to drop by and check out their store the next time he visited Diagon Alley.

_I know why Mum and Dad are worried. I am, too. I wish you'd been a bit more approachable these last few days at school, but I understand why you felt the need to withdraw. What happened at the Ministry was horrible. It was far worse than anything I'd imagined. Ever since we got back, I keep going over it and over it in my mind. We are lucky to be alive. I understand now why none of the adults who lived through this before will talk much about it. Yes, they all say it was terrible, but they never gave any details – something I know frustrated you as much as it did me. I know why they didn't give details, though, if what they lived through was anything like what we went through._

Harry had to agree with Ginny's sentiment. He felt the same way – they definitely were lucky to be alive – but he had never really wanted any details from the adults who'd been around the first time Voldemort came to power. Not about the battles. He'd been able to fill in the blanks on those ever since that night in the cemetery following the third TriWizard task.

_If I somehow woke up tomorrow and it was that day again, even knowing how bad it was and how bad it could have been, I just want you to know that I would still go with you. Not because you're Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, but because you're my friend and you deserve my loyalty. This is something that has taken me far too long to see: You aren't the nearly-mythical Boy-Who-Lived that I grew up hearing stories about, stories that seemed to me to be proved beyond all doubt when you rescued me from Riddle's diary in my first year. I didn't see it until that night at the Ministry, though. You aren't a storybook hero. You're just someone trying their best in some really bad circumstances. Maybe that makes you heroic in the most romantic adaptation of the term, but this isn't a fairytale. Following on that, if this isn't a fairytale, and you're not a storybook hero, then I'm not your damsel in distress. It took that battle at the Ministry for me to really understand that. I'm sorry if this is making you uncomfortable. If it's any consolation, I'm uncomfortable writing this. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't get the chance to say all this in person, that way we could spare ourselves the embarrassment. I really hope you catch my meaning in this, otherwise I'm going to have to repeat it all in person, and I'd really rather not._

One of Harry's eyebrows quirked up a little higher than the other. _That's surprising. I didn't think there was a force out there that could break her crush on me. Is it bad that I feel relieved at that? No, I refuse to feel bad about it. She's like a little sister to me and we were never going to go anywhere, not as a couple. Even if I hadn't gotten to know her as Ron's little sister, I don't think I would have dated her anyway – not with six older brothers and Molly on top of it all!_ A faint smile managed to surface on his face. _Maybe now we can try for friendship on a more even level…_ The smile evaporated as he remembered that Ginny was one of the people Lily had warned him about.

_I do have something else I wanted to tell you, something that I'd forgotten about until recently. I don't know how important it is, but I feel it is something you should be aware of, and it's something I don't think ought to be put in a letter. I would like to speak with you in person about it. I know your family probably won't allow you to have me over to visit, but could you let me know when you'll be getting your school supplies? We could meet up at Fred and George's place. Of course, that's if you don't wind up coming to the Burrow to visit before then._

_Hope you're well,_

_Ginny_

Harry reread the last paragraph. _I wonder what that's about. It can't be that she wants to date me, not after what she said earlier in the letter. Maybe it has to do with something she saw while we were separated at the Ministry._

His musings were cut short by the sound of someone knocking on the front door. He folded Ginny's letter and tucked it into his pocket. The faint sounds of Snape greeting Dumbledore filtered through the house. Harry set to picking up his things and heading inside.

"…activation phrase is 'oddment'," Dumbledore was saying. Harry emerged from the kitchen and saw that Snape was holding a plain black umbrella. _That must be the portkey._ Dumbledore shifted his attention to Harry. "Good evening, Harry," he said. "How has your summer been so far?"

Harry managed, though he had no clue just how he did it, to _not_ roll his eyes. Instead he focused on the floor, about halfway between himself and Dumbledore, and said, "Well enough, professor. I've started my homework."

He saw the old man nod in his peripheral vision. "Soonest begun is soonest done. You will want to make sure your homework is completed early this year. You have many things which must be done, and not much time in which to do it."

_Yeah, and whose fault is that? You should have told me about the prophesy years ago._ Out loud, Harry simply said, "Yes, sir." He noticed a small spider scurry across the floor, heading for the relative safety of the shadows beneath the armchair. "May I ask, sir, what else I'll be doing this summer?"

"All in good time, Harry," Dumbledore replied.

_Of course. I should have known. Answers later, later, always later with you. At least I can make a few guesses right now. You'll probably be pushing Snape to give me more occlumency lessons. Maybe, if I'm lucky, you'll find someone to train me with dueling, though I personally doubt that one. I don't think I really want your help, old man. I honestly don't think you really _want_ me to live through facing Voldemort. If you really did, I would have been training for it from the time I set foot in the wizarding world._ Harry didn't let his thoughts show on his face and simply nodded. He busied himself by returning his homework to his backpack while the headmaster gave Snape a few last instructions.

Finally, the old man made his excuses and left. Tension Harry hadn't known he'd been feeling evaporated. "Will we be leaving tonight?" Harry asked, glancing over at Snape.

"Yes," Snape said, his voice carrying no inflection. "Whenever you are ready, Potter."

"Just a moment," Harry said, shrugging into his pack. "Would you shrink Hedwig's cage for me, please? I'll put it in my trunk. She'll be able to find me when she gets back."

Harry hadn't really expected Snape to do it, but the potions master surprised him. "And where is your owl, Potter?"

"Taking a letter to a friend," Harry said, wedging the empty cage into a corner of his trunk. "I asked for a reply, so I'm not expecting her to be back until tomorrow." He closed the trunk lid. "May I ask where we will be going? I mean, I know it's an Order safe house, but where is it?"

"Near Aberdeen," Snape replied, still using a toneless lack of inflection. Now that Harry was paying attention, he realized that, with only one or two minor insults, it was how the professor had been speaking to him ever since leaving the Dursleys' house. "Is that everything?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Are we going now?"

"Yes."

Harry grabbed his trunk and reached for the umbrella. He had just enough time to make sure he had a good grip on both the umbrella and his trunk before Snape said the activation phrase and the portkey hooked into his bellybutton.

The landing was normal. Somehow, Harry managed to arrive in a disheveled heap. He counted it a success, though – he hadn't acquired any new bruises. He let go of the umbrella and climbed to his feet. An amused snort emerged from Snape. "Have you not simply tried closing your eyes, Potter? If you don't watch the world spin around you, then you will not arrive at your destination dizzy."

If there had been any light at where they'd arrived, Harry would have glared at Snape. However, wherever they'd landed was completely dark. _Well, not completely,_ Harry amended, noticing faint nighttime light coming through a pair of long, narrow windows. His eyes didn't get any further chance to adjust. Light blazed into being from a ceiling-mounted chandelier, revealing a small foyer done in hardwoods. A staircase was directly in front of him, running parallel to a hallway. There were archways to both the left and right of the hall – two on the right and three on the left. The hall was capped with doors at either end.

Snape didn't give him a chance to explore. The professor simply levitated Harry's trunk and strode upstairs. Harry followed him. Another hallway greeted his arrival on the second floor, this one was shorter than the one downstairs, and contained three doors.

Snape opened the door on the left and looked in. Nodding to himself, he floated Harry's trunk into it. "Do try to be quiet, Potter." Harry hurried after his trunk and closed the door behind him. The room was dark, so he instinctively fumbled for a light switch, only to find a wand-plate instead. Harry retrieved his wand from the side-pocket of his backpack and tapped it against the plate. An overhead chandelier flared into life.

The room wasn't all that large, and contained a bed, a dresser, and a small desk with chair. The window, though, was relatively large and sported a padded bench. Colors tended to 'neutral', creams and browns, with highlights of dark orange. A slatted door proved to lead to the bathroom.

While it wasn't Hogwarts, it also wasn't the Dursleys', nor was it Grimmauld Place, so Harry figured it didn't much matter.

_It'll do._

* * *

**A/N2:** Thanks to everyone who's reading, and double-thanks to all who take the time to review.


	10. Letters and More

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Happy Wednesday (at least, it's still Wednesday here). Question for y'all - is it really so odd to watch Stephen King's _It_, _Kingdom of the Spiders_ (mid-to-late seventies spider flick starring William Shatner), _Ella Enchanted_, _Murder at 1600_, and M. Night Shamalan's _The Village_ all in the same day? Mom said it was.

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Nine: Letters and More_

Harry woke to the sound of tapping on his bedroom window. He peeled one eye open and ascertained that Hedwig had managed to find him. Blearily, he climbed out of bed, padded across the smallish room, and opened the window. Hedwig swooped in and perched on the back of the desk chair. Harry relieved her of the reply to his own letter. "Thanks, Hedwig," he said. "I'll try to get restocked on treats soon. In the meantime, I'll bring you some of my breakfast. Will that do?" The bird ignored him in favor of grooming her wings.

Shaking his head at her, he detoured into the bathroom attached to his bedroom. Cleaned and dressed, he made a mental note to look around for a washing machine or its equivalent – he'd forgotten to have the house elves do his laundry before leaving Hogwarts and was now wearing the last of his clean clothing. His owl had moved to perch on the bed's footboard, so Harry sat at the desk to read his letter.

_Harry,_

_Thanks for thinking of me. I'll admit I was surprised to see I'd gotten a letter from you. Aunt Amelia was surprised, too. She'd known you were in my class at school, but didn't figure that we knew each other since we're from different Houses. I had to explain to her about the DA and why it was needed. She very nearly swore out a warrant for Umbridge after hearing about the detentions! Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if she did and just didn't tell me about it. I don't know if you knew or not, but Wayne Hopkins wound up in detention with her almost as often as you did._

_Anyway, about what you asked about. I don't really know anyone personally, so I took your questions to Aunt Amelia. She's got some really good ideas. It's all on the second page._

_I'm pretty sure I managed at least an E on my DADA OWL, thanks to you and the DA. Do you know if you'll be continuing it next year? I hope you do. Even if we manage to get a good teacher, they don't have enough time to go over everything in detail like we did in the DA._

_Hope to hear from you again,_

_Susan Bones_

Harry smiled to himself. He'd known when he'd sent his request that Susan wouldn't really know much about what he was asking. She'd done exactly as he'd hoped and taken his questions to her aunt, who just happened to be the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He flipped to the second piece of parchment.

_Mr. Potter,_

_While I am surprised that you apparently know my niece better than I had previously assumed, I must offer my thanks to your foresight in helping her study for her OWLs. My connections at the Ministry indicate that your defense club is responsible for some of the highest scores recorded for that particular test in the last fifty years. Of course, this conclusion is based off of internal memos and gossip, and therefore is not official. Official announcements will be released one week after the OWL results are given to the students themselves. I will be working with Susan during the course of the summer to ensure her skills in this area do not fade from lack of use, and I must offer my further thanks for giving me the idea: Your assumption is correct. An underage witch or wizard may use magic during the summer holiday, as long as they are supervised by a licensed instructor. Feel free to pass this information along to any of your friends who might be like-minded to yourself._

_Before I attend to the other inquires you have posed, I do have a request: Dumbledore, acting in his capacity of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, has refused repeated requests from my department and the Department of Mysteries to interview you or any of your fellows who managed to hold off the Death Eater attack a few weeks ago. Now, I do not wish to alarm you – it is clear from the testimony of both the captured Death Eaters and the adults which eventually showed on-scene that you and your friends were acting primarily in self-defense. Asklepios Croaker and I simply wish to ascertain how you managed to get into the Ministry, so that protections can be put in place to avoid anything similar happening again in the future. You will not be prosecuted for your actions, and both Croaker and I are willing to make an Unbreakable Vow to that effect, should you require it of us. I eagerly await your reply._

_Now, to your own questions._

_As I mentioned above, you are certainly able to hire a tutor for the summer without violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. I daresay you will have no shortage of replies should you do as you mentioned and place an advertisement in the Prophet, but might I suggest that you consider one of the following before resorting to such drastic action?_

_Orlia Malthus – fully qualified to tutor in charms, transfiguration, and formal dueling.  
Pete Smith – transfiguration, potions, and charms.  
A. Dunbarton – mind-magics, wards and set-spells, arithmancy, and runes.  
Alicia Sparrow – potions, dueling, and defense.  
Umberto Ortiz – defense and charms.  
Francine Gelladdy – transfiguration, potions, and arithmancy.  
Cora Pyria – healing, defense, and mind-magics.  
Jeremy Nuno – dueling and runes.  
Hans Meyer – defense, wards and set-spells, potions, and dueling._

_There are, of course, many more individuals who are Master-level (the requirement for being able to obtain a tutor's permit) in various fields, but I focused on those who have made their living by teaching. Dunbarton, Ortiz, and Meyer are all employed by Meistr-Ysgol Dewiniaeth near Llangynidr in Wales; their school year is slightly shorter than that of Hogwarts – it runs from Mabon through Beltane – and all three have a reputation for taking tutoring contracts during the summer months; Ortiz in particular comes highly recommended. Malthus was in Minerva McGonagall's class at Hogwarts and turned down the transfiguration professorship, leading to McGonagall being placed in the position (from what my mother told me, the two of them had a rather heated rivalry while at Hogwarts, but I've never been able to get Minerva to confirm or deny it). Sparrow, Gelladdy, Pyria, and Nuno are all tutors by trade, with an average of twenty years experience each. The only name I've given you that I hesitated before adding was that of Pete, but Susan assures me that my caution is unneeded; she claims you were rather close to Remus Lupin when he taught at Hogwarts. If this is true, then you understand my meaning without my having to spell it out for you._

_Unlike any replies you might get from an advertisement in the paper, I can assure you that no one I've recommended has ever come under the scrutiny of my department for any reason whatsoever, and if any of them support You-Know-Who, then none of the Death Eaters currently in custody know about it._

_Moving on from magical learning, I have to admit that there really isn't anything in the magical world like you described. The Heads of magical families manage their own estates, using (or not) the advice of account managers at Gringotts. Said Heads normally select their heir and personally train him or her in the running of things before retiring. Granted, this cannot be utilized in your case. You might actually have better luck checking in the muggle world. Alternatively, since without you, the families you now head would be considered extinct (or nearly so), you can employ the use of a barrister to draft a new Family Writ. In fact, any Head of a magical family is capable of re-drafting a Family Writ at any time, most simply chose not to do so, clinging to their traditions, regardless of how antiquated. One word of caution, however: If you decide to hire an account manager at Gringotts, make certain that any goblin-forged heirlooms you might own are safely secured elsewhere. They seem to think that just because a particular item was made by them it still belongs to them. I've had to intervene at least twice a year, every year since being posted to my position, in getting some goblin-made object or other back to its rightful owner. It's more than just a little frustrating._

_Sorry for the side-rant. I'll attempt to avoid such in the future._

_I hope this adequately addresses your concerns, and I look forward to hearing back from you in regards to my own inquiry._

_Sincerely,_

_Amelia Bones  
Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

The information on hiring a tutor was very much appreciated, the bit where Madam Bones slipped and called her friend 'Pete' was enlightening, the details regarding a lack of any sort of formal education available for estate management was disappointing, and the info on the OWL results was both surprising and pleasing, but Harry wasn't too sure what to do with her request. He could see the sense in what she was asking for, but he wasn't altogether too certain he could trust her yet, though the part mentioning an Unbreakable Vow – once he'd looked it up in his computer – was a point in her favor. _I'll need to think about it. Maybe see if Neville and Luna can be with me if I decide to speak with her in person._

The part about a 'Family Writ' also had him searching through his computer; what it boiled down to was a code of conduct, dating back to when the Head of a Family was the sole law governing that family. He made a note on his ever-growing list to check and see if he could locate the Potter and Black Family Writs.

He was about to start a letter to Neville to set up times the two of them could talk over their communicators when his stomach growled. _I wonder if Dobby would like to come work for me? I can't help but think I'd get a lot more done if I didn't have to see about my laundry and whatnot._ He headed downstairs. In trying to locate the kitchen, he found that the two archways on the right-hand side of the hallway, as registered by someone coming through the house's front door, lead to a sitting room and a mid-sized library, while the doors on the left-hand side of the hallway opened to a study, a dining room, and the kitchen. _Figures it'd be the last room I find._ Stuck to the icebox was a note in Snape's distinctive, spiky handwriting.

_Potter,_

_As you will not be the only child Professor Dumbledore has decreed I shall be babysitting this summer, do make an attempt to keep the house tidy. I will return around noon with the other children._

"First I've heard of it," Harry muttered. He idly wondered who else was condemned to suffering under the git while he scrounged up some bacon, eggs, and toast for his breakfast.

* * *

While Xenophilius Lovegood was busy setting type for _The Quibbler_'s next issue, Luna crept into the room that used to be her mother's workshop. Nothing in it was changed and she had to stop in her tracks, momentarily overcome by memories yet again. _Someday, I'm going to be able to come here and not see it happen. Someday._ Luna straightened her shoulders and pushed the memory aside. She strode across the flagstone floor and seated herself at her mother's desk.

She pressed down on the blotter, which resulted in a faint _click_, then reached over and rotated an empty jar one half-turn clockwise. The catch disengaged, and the blotter rose, pivoting on an unseen hinge along the edge closest to the back of the desk. Underneath it was a slab of marble, carved into a configuration she now knew as a 'keyboard' thanks to her Muggle Studies classes. The characters etched on the 'keys' were not letters and numbers, however, but runes and a handful of other odd symbols. The underside of the blotter was silvered, much like a mirror, but didn't produce reflections.

Luna tapped the carving which looked rather like an upper case 'Q' with its tail pointing straight up. A dual-pitched hum, both so low that it was more felt than heard and so high that it was very nearly completely inaudible, sounded from deep within the sturdy desk. The silvered underside of the blotter darkened to nearly black, then flashed white and began glowing. A moment later, it darkened to black once more, but still glowed. Three rows of white runes filled the topmost portion of the surface area, then there was a bit of empty space, then a rectangle the same size as a single 'letter' blinked about halfway to the bottom.

She typed in a string of commands, then pressed the key which depicted a pair of crossed wands. A pair of concentric circles carved into the stone floor began glowing. Luna only had enough time to verify that her command had executed properly before the radish earring in her right ear began chiming. Sighing, she tapped one of the butterbeer caps in her necklace. "Yes?"

"Is there any particular reason you're toying with your mother's transference station?" The voice was rough, almost as though the man to whom it belonged regularly gargled gravel.

"I'm just checking something," Luna replied.

"And what would that be?"

"I assume you guys saw what happened at the Ministry?" Luna spoke and typed another string of commands.

The man cleared his throat. "Yes, we watched what we could. That doesn't explain why you're tinkering with a class-five restricted interdimensional transference portal."

"I'll get to that in a minute. You saw Harry's godfather get pushed through the veil, right?"

"We did. Oh, so I see… You do realize that you need some sort of anchor to that portal for what you're attempting to be of any use at all, don't you?"

Luna chuckled. "I know, Harvey. And I don't have it yet, but I will soon. I'm simply checking on power-consumption levels right now."

"Should be six erts on standby, ten to twelve during connection, and fifteen to twenty during transference." (1)

"But that's only for nonliving magical matter," Luna countered, still typing. "Mice cause it to spike to thirty. Puffskeins spike to fifty."

Harvey let out a low growling noise. "And just _how_ do you know that, Miss Lovegood?"

Luna smirked. "I snuck home last weekend – Daddy was busy chasing a story on the continent – and checked. Lily told me you guys were going to have issues with your equipment and I couldn't pass up the chance. I figured you'd be less argumentative if I'd already done some of the work."

"Blasted Ravenclaw," Harvey replied, though his tone was teasing. "Tell you what, kiddo, it's coming up on my lunchtime. How about I find something else to do for the next hour? I'll even keep Lily off your back for you."

"Before you go, Harvey, I did have a question." Luna stopped typing and focused entirely on the voice at the other end of her magical communicator.

"And just what might that be, sweetie?"

"You can target-send things to whomever you like, right?"

"If the higher-ups deem it necessary. What did you have in mind?"

"Well, if I can recalibrate the transference circle to accept living magical beings without scrambling them into goo, then I'm going to need the target-info. Besides, he's going to need a way to know we're working on getting him home."

Harvey let out a low whistle. "You think you're close enough for me to be able to get a requisition okayed?"

"I'm certain. Sometime in the next couple of days, as long as Daddy keeps busy enough not to notice me."

"You got it, kiddo. If this works, then the odds that all of it works will skyrocket. I'll run the actual figures through MOTAP – the results should be enough by themselves to be able to get the requisition rubber-stamped. Genius certainly bred true in your case, Luna."

"Mummy was brilliant, yes, but I know I'm nowhere near her level."

"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart. You're a hell of a lot closer to finishing her experiments than any of us are. I do have to go, though. Look after yourself."

"I always do, Harvey. Let everyone know I said 'hi', would you?"

"No problem."

When the connection went silent, Luna disconnected her end and returned to her work. Most of her attention was focused on making sure she'd typed the needed commands properly, but a sliver was working on a way to get back into the Department of Mysteries to snag a shred of the veil or a chunk of the stone archway supporting it.

* * *

Gabrielle didn't get much sleep. She was too excited. Nicole, on the other hand, had dropped off almost the moment they returned from their spontaneous day-trip to Paris and had snored loudly all night long. When her alarm went off at four o'clock, she was already awake and staring at the ceiling. The alarm simply spurred her into action.

Half an hour later, she was dressed and poking Nicole, trying to get her sister-by-choice to stir. After a long ten minutes, the brunette finally managed to claw her way to consciousness. Luckily, Gabrielle was prepared – she immediately handed Nicole a cup of strong coffee.

"Wha' 'ime's it?" Nicole yawned.

"About a quarter to five."

Nicole glared at the veela. "We're not scheduled to leave until seven. Why so early?"

"We've already got the portkey. I told Mother and Papa it was set for five-thirty."

Her friend simply blinked at her. "Huh?"

Gabrielle shook her head and urged Nicole to drink her coffee. "Hurry up and wake up. I have something I want to do before we go."

Nicole gulped a couple of swallows from the cup, accidentally scalding her tongue in the process. "Why didn't you do it yesterday? Then I could still be asleep!"

"Because I want a haircut. You _know_ Mother wouldn't approve," Gabrielle made a 'hurry up' motion with her hands. "And Du Coiffeur opens right at six. Madame Mignon herself said she'd make sure my hair was _finally_ manageable."

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Nicole guzzled the last of the coffee and scurried to the bathroom. "I'll be ready in ten minutes!"

While Nicole hurriedly dressed, Gabrielle threw robes on over her powder blue sundress. Her mother would never have approved of the sundress, but the last she checked, Apolline didn't have the ability to see through clothing, so Gabrielle figured what her mom didn't know wouldn't hurt her. She planned on ditching the robes at her earliest opportunity.

Eventually, both girls were dressed and made their way down to the dining room. Apolline, thankfully, was not up yet. Even so, Gabrielle kept her robes on, simply because her father was awake, and if she appeared wearing just the sundress, it would eventually make its way back to her mother. François looked from the girls to the clock on the wall and back. "You two are cutting it awfully close," he said.

"I know, Papa," Gabrielle replied, kissing his cheek. "Thank you again for letting me go."

François smiled indulgently at her. "Not a problem, kitten. You two make sure you stay safe, though."

"Absolutely, Papa."

With that, François stood and hugged his youngest. "I have to go to work, sweetheart. You two have fun." He kissed her forehead and removed himself from the room.

Nicole shared a 'parents are so lame' look with Gabrielle before seizing the coffee pot and setting to leveling out her caffeine levels for the day. They apparated out at five twenty-five and had a light breakfast at a muggle bakery after Gabrielle transfigured the robes into a light jacket that matched her dress. Their luggage was shrunken and secured in their pockets, along with their portkey to London.

Five minutes to six found them standing outside Du Coiffeur, where a pleasantly cheerful Madame Mignon noticed them before they had a chance to knock. Forty-five minutes later, and Gabrielle's long, silky, horribly unmanageable hair was in drifts around the stylist's chair. What was left on her head was short, but still feminine, in small spiky layers that didn't get into Gabrielle's eyes, nor tickle the back of her neck.

The style actually suited her far more than the waist-length locks had; she actually looked her age, perhaps even a year or two older than her sixteen years. It garnered a round of applause from Nicole and earned Madame Mignon a sizable tip.

They passed the remaining time chatting, while waiting for their portkey, a page out of last week's _Courrier International de la Magie,_ to activate.

And then it did.

* * *

While Harry was reading a letter from Susan Bones, Gabrielle was getting her hair cut, and Luna was busy rewriting the laws of interdimensional travel, a completely average visitor discovered an open door.

Though there were scents of people, the raccoon could tell that these were passing-through scents. Older scents told her that people denned here in the past, but they weren't here anymore.

She investigated the human-den quite thoroughly, discovering a treasure trove of food – a forgotten bag of candy – wedged between sofa cushions.

Indeed, the nicely dark space under the sofa itself would make a fine home.

She finished moving her three kits in just as the neighborhood around her began to come alive for the day.

* * *

**A/N2:** My usage of 'erts' is not a misspelling of hertz. It's a measure of magical power-drain, comparable to volts in modern electronics.

I also know that raccoons aren't native to the UK, but they have been kept as pets, and a recent article I read online indicates that wild raccoons are becoming an increasing problem in parts of the UK, so I don't think it's too out of the question for what I wrote to be completely improbable.

And is anyone else as jazzed as I am about the new 'moderate reviews' option? I mean, it's brilliant! One of the few changes ffnet has made in the past few years which actually makes sense (and doesn't manage to irritate me right out of my skin)! The fact that I can now delete anonymous reviews which are sheer idiocy (like the ones I harped on a few chapters ago) is _fantastic_. I don't mind getting constructive criticism (for example, when I first started writing in the HP fandom, I mistakenly had Ginny's name as Ginerva, not Ginevra, and it took someone pointing it out in a review for me to realize the mistake; in AaO, I killed a character in an early chapter, but didn't realized it when I wrote a much later chapter - my reviewers pointed it out to me), but when all you're going to say is 'this sux, your a bad riter' then why bother reviewing at all?


	11. A Taste of Things to Come

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** I'll apologize here and now for the likely horrible butchering of the French language bits contained herein. If you know a better way to translate what I was trying to say, _please_ let me know!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Ten: A Taste of Things to Come_

Breakfast in the Granger house was served at seven sharp, every day, summer or winter, holiday or not. Spelt bread toast with peanut butter, soft-boiled eggs, and a bowl of steel-rolled oat porridge with a handful of blueberries, all of it organic. (1) Every day. Hermione exchanged a woeful glance with Emilia before sitting at the table. _I miss bacon already_, she thought while helping herself to the food on offer, _and buttered toast made from real bread_. Even though she knew – on some level – that Emilia was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to anyone but her, it still surprised her that their parents only exchanged greetings with their 'official' daughter. Emilia helped herself to a slice of the toast and some berries. Hermione noticed that neither the stack of toast nor the bowl of berries reflected Emilia's subtractions from their numbers.

"Blasted modern engineers rely too heavily on computers, if you ask me," Corin Granger grumbled, setting the newspaper aside.

"What was that, dear?" Miranda looked up from her own morning reading.

Corin gestured to the biggest headline on the front page. _Death Toll Reaches 25 in __Brockdale__Bridge__ Collapse._ "That bridge down in Brockdale, you know the one – they kept talking about it for years before they managed to get around to building it. Ruddy thing's less than ten years old, and it up and collapsed last night."

Hermione's mom frowned at the headline. "Do they know what caused it yet?"

Corin shook his head, "Not a clue. Paper says they're still investigating, but it's because of those ruddy computers. How else can you explain a brand-new bridge just up and collapsing when the Tower Bridge was finished a hundred years ago and is still taking traffic?"

Miranda quickly scanned the article. "It could simply have been due to poor quality building supplies. You know how contractors love to skimp on the important things, just to pocket more money."

A chill crept down Hermione's neck. She had several theories on why a new bridge might collapse, but none of them included such mundane things as poor construction or inferior materials. "Has my paper arrived yet?" Hermione asked, suddenly not very hungry at all.

Her father nodded. "Yes, it's in the den."

"Thank you," Hermione replied, then forced herself to finish her meal. Her parents weren't too keen on letting her leave the table once she'd sat down.

With her breakfast resting like a wad of lead in her stomach, she eventually made her way to the den and quickly located her copy of _The Daily Prophet_. The headline was enough to confirm her earlier suspicions. _Dark Mark Spotted in Brockdale – Muggle Deaths Numerous._

"I'oh'nee?"

"Not now, Emilia." Hermione tried to focus on the article.

"Come on, I'oh'nee. I'm _bored._ Who cares about some stupid bridge? Let's go outside. Maybe we'll see if Kenneth Parksweather is as cute as he was when we were ten."

"Kenny moved to Portsmouth two years ago, Em. Hush a bit and let me read, please?"

Emilia let out an explosive huff. "Why's it matter that the bridge collapsed? I mean, sure it's terrible that those people died, but it's not like you can do anything about it. So why bother reading about it? All it's going to do is make you tense and nervous."

"Em, _please_!" Hermione glared at her 'sister'. "This is important."

"But it _isn't_, not to us." Emilia sighed when she saw Hermione continue to ignore her in favor of reading the paper. Soon she began humming. About the same time that Hermione was about to flip to page four to finish the article, Emilia's hum turned into singing. "The heart may freeze or it can burn, the pain will ease if I can learn," her voice was clear and tone-perfect. "There is no future, there is no past, thank God this moment's not the last."

Sighing, Hermione put down the paper and joined Emilia, though her own voice was nowhere near as strong or as on-key; in fact, it could hardly be called singing. "There's only us, there's only this. Forget regret – or life is yours to miss." She was also much quieter than Emilia, painfully aware that this particular song would be a giant, flashing red sign that she'd taken of the bespelled necklace. "No other road, no other way, no day but today." (2)

The pair lapsed into silence for a moment before Hermione shook her head at Emilia. "Fine. You win. So, what are we doing today?"

Emilia grinned. "How about we just spend the day outside? See what there is to see. Explore a little. You might've lived here for the years I've been… _away_, but I don't think you've ventured out very much."

Hermione let out a little chuckle. "I suppose not," she agreed. "Want to take a picnic with us?"

* * *

For reasons which had never been sufficiently explained to Severus, the international portkey arrival point for travelers from France was located in the back room of a grotty little pub in a no-name village more than ninety miles from London. The only thing the dark and dusty arrival point had going for it was a private exit, so he and his soon-to-arrive charges wouldn't be required to traipse through the pub proper.

Right on time, Gabrielle and her friend arrived. Severus stepped forward and greeted them. ""Je présume que vous êtes Gabrielle Delacour?" (I presume you are Gabrielle Delacour?)

The taller of the two girls nodded. "Oui, c'est moi. Voici mon ami, Nicole Morel." She offered her hand. (Yes, I am. This is my friend, Nicole Morel.) "Vous êtes Severus Snape?" (You are Severus Snape?)

Not wanting to anger the veela girl – one veela-induced scar was more than enough – Severus shook her hand only long enough to be polite. He inclined his head towards the diminutive brunette. "Oui," he replied. (Yes.) "Si vous posez la main sur ce portoloin, nous pourrons y aller." He held out the umbrella Albus had given him. (If you would take hold of this portkey, we shall go.)

The girls traded nervous glances before simultaneously reaching out to grab the umbrella.

* * *

So far, this had been Neville's best summer holiday to date. Not only did a trip to Diagon Alley the day before provide him with a new wand, one suited to him in a way that his dad's wasn't, but his gran was actually treating him with a modicum of respect. In fact, she was allowing him to determine just what he wished to do with his time, for the first time _ever_. It was a heady feeling, to see pride in _him_ in her eyes. Neville figured he could get used to seeing it. And so he worked hard on making sure that look didn't fade. For all that his gran hadn't woken him up, he made sure to be down at breakfast on time, and had taken care in his appearance, ensuring all buttons were done up properly and such.

"Have you any plans for the holiday other than the obvious?" Augusta Longbottom added one lump of sugar to her morning tea.

Neville shrugged. "I'm not too sure yet, but the first thing I'm going to do is get all my summer homework out of the way. I figure if I get it all done early, then I don't have to worry about it, and if something comes up that I need help on, I'll have more time to get it right before I have to hand it in." He helped himself to a couple of poached eggs and the bubble and squeak on offer.

"A sound plan," Augusta nodded decisively. "Algie is planning on making a trip to the Keukenhof Gardens sometime this summer – he indicated it would be nearer to the end of August, though, so if you plan on accompanying him, plan accordingly."

Keukenhof was considered to be one of the grandest botanical gardens in the world, and Neville would certainly like to go, but tulips – even magical ones – just weren't his cup of tea. Instead of saying so, he simply nodded. "I'll keep it in mind. Thank you."

* * *

Harry had just finished his breakfast and was collecting the dishes to get them cleaned up when he heard voices in the hallway. _Snape must be back with… Well, whoever it was that he's 'babysitting' this summer. Wonder who it is?_ He turned off the sink tap and poked his head around the door frame. It only took him half a second to realize that yes, he was right about it being Snape, and that none of the three people in the hallway were speaking English. _I didn't know he could speak other languages. _The surprise had managed to divert his attention from the newcomers until the blonde girl nodded and said the only French word Harry knew – merci. Snape said something else and apparated away.

While the newcomers looked around the hallway, Harry took the time to give them a once-over. The taller of the two was pale, with white-blonde hair, and a pair of the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. She was also about his same height, maybe even a fraction taller. The other girl was much shorter, with curly dark hair, dark eyes, and a pretty impressive figure for being so short. The short one noticed him first and elbowed the blonde before saying something in French. The blonde laughed at whatever it was and replied in the same language.

Harry didn't really care what they were saying, and he didn't think he was being egotistical by assuming it was about him, but he likewise didn't want to appear rude. He stepped into the hallway and pasted a polite smile on his face. "Hi," he said, wondering if either of them had any familiarity at all with the only language he knew.

As it turned out, he need not have worried. The brunette smiled back at him. "Hi yourself," she said, her accent an odd amalgam of French and southeastern US. "I'm Nicole. This is Gabrielle. You can call us Nic and Gabby, if you like."

"I'm Harry," he replied, then instantly regretted it as Nicole translated it. Gabrielle smirked at him and rattled off a long string of French. Nicole replied to her, and that seemed to trigger a conversation. After nearly five minutes of standing there, Harry sighed and retreated back to the kitchen. He wasn't positive that either girl noticed.

He finished washing the dishes and then headed back to his room. He hadn't forgotten his promise to Hedwig – he had kept a couple of pieces of bacon for her. After feeding his owl, he returned to his desk and reread the letters he'd received. Harry decided to start with Ginny.

_Ginny,_

_Thanks for writing, and so early in the summer, too. It's good to hear about Fred and George – I'll have to drop by the next time I make it to Diagon. _

_I agree that we're lucky to be alive. Even luckier that the worst injury was Hermione's. That whole string of events at the Ministry did make me realize something – I'm in way over my head on this. I'm hoping to get some extra tutoring this summer (and I'd appreciate it if you could keep that under your hat as I'd prefer not to let anyone know but those I tell myself). _

_I have to say I'm relieved that you're not looking to me to be your knight in shining armor. I've got enough to do to keep my own neck in one piece, and I'd much rather my friends be able to look after themselves, too. (I hope I haven't managed to earn one of your bat-bogey hexes for saying that, by the way.) You know what? I think I'll simply come right out and speak what's on my mind – there's value in plain speaking, and trying to figure out how to word it so you won't be upset is making my brain hurt. I'm really happy you're not trying to get me to date you. I don't mean that you're not pretty, but you're Ron's sister, and with him like a brother to me… On top of that, I never showed you the one photograph I've got of my mum from when she was a second year, have I? If not for the fact her eyes were green, the two of you could have been twins. So, yeah. The whole idea of dating you is kind of gross. But friendship? That I can do._

_I'm a little perplexed at what you might want to talk to me about, though. The only thing I could come up with was the whole dating-thing you'd shot down before getting to that point in your letter – everything else seemed either stupid (why hesitate to talk Quidditch in a letter?) or silly. I don't know if I'll be allowed to go anywhere this summer – my aunt, uncle, and cousin are currently out of the country, so I'm stuck in a safe house. I hope I'll be let outside at least, but I'm not expecting it._

_I'll write when I can,  
Harry_

He reread it twice before nodding to himself. _I know she was one of the ones Lily said was under Dumbledore's thumb, but if he doesn't come to me about that 'extra tutoring' bit, then I'll consider trusting her with more._ The sound of girlish giggling filtered through the wall he shared with their bedroom. He shook his head at it. _This must be a little like how Hermione must feel, having to live with Lavender and Parvati._ Harry selected a fresh piece of parchment and set to writing Neville, making sure to suggest times when they might be able to use the communicators from Lily.

While Harry was busy working on his letters, Gabrielle and Nicole were unpacking. Their room was slightly larger than Harry's, and similarly furnished (but with two of everything), with the colors tending toward greens and blues. Putting the last of her clothes in the armoire, Nicole flopped onto the bed furthest from the door. "This place isn't as bad as I'd thought it would be."

Gabrielle shrugged and joined Nicole. "But it's not really what I'd had in mind, either."

Nicole nodded. "True. It's like English wizards don't know how to use construction magics." Neither one realized that it wasn't simply a matter of magic, but of money. Both girls came from well-off families. Had they ever visited some of their classmates at home, they would have seen similar accommodations.

"Or even permanent transfigurations."

Shrugging, Nicole sat up. "Well, we don't know that for certain. Maybe it's just that they lack imagination."

Gabrielle waved her hand, "Whatever. It's livable, and I suppose that's all that really matters. But moving on… Harry isn't quite what I'd imagined, either."

Nicole snickered. "He's shorter, you mean."

Gabrielle nodded. "That and he… Well, _you_ saw him! He just _stood there_, like he was never taught proper manners."

"Could be he's just shy."

The two shared a look before dissolving into giggles. "Shy?" Gabrielle shook her head. "I doubt it."

"Yeah, me too. I don't think anyone who entered the TriWizard competition could really be called 'shy'." Nicole stretched. Her stomach growled noisily. It was met by an answering growl from Gabrielle's. The pair shared another look and laughed.

* * *

Even though is was a brightly sunny day outside, the study was dark. A cold fire burned in the hearth, providing an odd pale yellow light. A single candle burned on the corner of a heavy desk, covered in parchment scrolls. He was working his way through the reports of his agents within the Ministry when a knock sounded on the door. "Enter," he called out, not looking up from the update from the Department of Magical Transportation.

"Milord, Rowle is here with an urgent message."

Suppressing a wince at Pettigrew's simpering tone, Voldemort glanced up. "Send him in."

Pettigrew disappeared almost as though he'd apparated away and a moment later a tall, swarthy blonde man with a face like a hatchet entered. He made a cursory bow. "Milord."

"Thorfinn. What news?" Voldemort gave the man his full attention. Rowle wouldn't be there if it wasn't urgent.

"Milord, a petition is being circulated for a no-confidence vote on Fudge. When I left, it already had half again as many signatures as was needed to present it to the Wizengamot."

Voldemort hissed through his teeth. "You are certain?"

Rowle nodded. "Yes, milord."

Frowning, Voldemort closed his eyes and considered. _This is sooner than I had planned. We don't have quite enough supporters in the Wizengamot to ensure a loyalist placed as Minister._ He opened his eyes. "Who are the top three choices for interim Minister?"

"Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour are the only ones being considered at this time, milord."

Voldemort scowled. Neither of the pair would be conducive to his plans. "When will it be put to vote?"

"Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, milord."

_Nowhere near enough time to introduce a third candidate. _He nodded levelly at Rowle. "Thank you, Thorfinn. You are dismissed." He waited until Rowle had gone before shouting for Pettigrew.

"Yes, milord?"

"Send Bellatrix in."

"Right away, milord."

It was nearly five minutes before Bellatrix appeared. She entered and sank immediately to one knee, but didn't bow her head. "You called for me, my lord?"

Voldemort got to his feet and strode over to her. He held out a hand and she clasped it in her own. "Yes, my dear. We've a pair of attacks to plan for tonight."

Bellatrix gracefully rose to her feet. Voldemort indicated for her to take a seat as he resumed his own. "May I ask on whom, my lord?"

"Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour."

Bellatrix smiled. "Worthy opponents."

"Indeed."

"It seems that simultaneous attacks would work best, my lord. Three. One for each of them, and a diversion elsewhere."

Voldemort nodded. "That was my thought as well. Assassinations are always best if the attacks are small. Therefore, you will go after Scrimgeour. Pick no more than two or three others to accompany you. I will take Selwynn and attack the estimable Madam Bones personally."

"And for the diversion, my lord?"

He smiled. "Azkaban."

* * *

**A/N2:** 1. 'Spelt bread' is bread made from a specific type of grain that's a close-cousin to wheat (it's often referred to as 'spelt wheat'). It's far coarser than typical wheat bread and (the one time I was talked into trying it), it was bitter and just plain gross. I would rather eat a sweat-sock than spelt bread.

2. The song that Hermione and Emilia sing is 'No Day but Today' from _Rent_. I don't own anything to do with it, either – though I do have the DVD.

Thanks to Sandrine Lupin for the edit (07/21/2012) to the French bits.


	12. The Firebolt Snidget

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** And another chapter for your reading pleasure. Have fun, I know I sure did!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Eleven: The Firebolt Snidget_

It was rapidly approaching lunchtime when Severus finally reappeared at the Order safe house. He found Potter in the kitchen, angrily stirring a tin of soup on the stove. There were a small pile of dishes in the sink and the table bore evidence of having been scrubbed to within an inch of its life just a short while ago. "Might I inquire as to just what offense a tin of mushroom soup has leveled against you?"

Potter glared at him before returning his attention to his lunch. "It wasn't the soup, Snape."

Severus barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Of course not."

The teen stepped away from the stove and grabbed a bowl from the cupboard. "It was those two brainless twats you brought here. Neither one seems to know how to clean up after themselves – they left crumbs enough to feed an army of mice spread all over the table, along with the bread and peanut butter and the raspberry jam from the icebox! And who uses _spoons_ for jam, for crying out loud!" It had taken him nearly ten minutes to pry the spoon off of the tabletop – the jam had somehow managed to dry to a tacky consistency in what had been, at most, only a couple of hours. Potter turned off the stove and tipped the pan of soup into his bowl. As angry as he appeared to be, Severus was impressed that he'd not spilled any. Potter slammed the bowl down on the table, again without spilling a drop. "I'm not a bloody house elf and today is the first, last, and _only_ time I will clean up after them."

Severus left Potter to his meal and set about finding his own lunch. "I will have a word with them," he said, rummaging around in the cabinets. All-in-all, the scene he'd just witnessed reminded him altogether too much of that night Potter had confronted him in Hogwarts' kitchen and the last thing he wanted right then was to have Potter's ire directed at him once again.

"Hah!" Potter nearly shouted it. "I doubt that very much. From what the short one said, the blonde is some sort of cousin of yours."

Severus paused his perusal of the cupboard and turned to face Potter with an unopened jar of green olives in his hand. "I would assume, Potter, given your own situation, you would understand that it is not a requirement to express familial loyalty. If they cannot abide by my rules, I will simply send them home."

A trace of the tension in Potter's shoulders faded. "Yeah, I suppose there is that. She's Fleur's little sister, isn't she?"

Severus nodded and returned to his efforts at cobbling together something remotely edible. "She is. My mother and her father were cousins – their respective fathers were brothers."

Potter let out a little huff of amusement. "Obviously not the veela side of the family."

"That is her mother's side." Snape finally spotted what he was looking for – a tin of kippers – and pulled it out of the depths of the cabinet. Next, he helped himself to a couple of slices of bread and assembled a sandwich, all the while marveling at the fact that he was having a reasonably civil conversation with the Potter brat.

Said brat had lapsed into silence and was now morosely toying with his lunch. Severus tolerated it for longer than he felt reasonable before finally breaking the silence. "Now what, Potter?"

The youth shook his head and reluctantly met Severus' gaze. "Nothing important. I was just curious as to whether or not I was allowed outside."

Severus shrugged. "I fail to see why not. This house is rather secluded, surrounded by mild muggle-repelling charms, and appears to those not permitted to be here by its owner to be a dilapidated ruin, not unlike the Shrieking Shack. If you exercise caution, I see no need to exile yourself to within these walls."

More tension leaked from the boy's frame. "Ah, good then."

"The floo in the library is hooked up, as well. It is warded to require a password for return journeys, however." As Severus had been given no instructions pertaining to the care and feeding of one Harry James Potter, he felt well within his rights to allow the frustrating brat to come and go as he pleased. It would certainly provide him with a bit of peace every now and then.

"What's the password?" Potter blinked and amended his question, "And how do I use it? Just attach it to the floo address?"

Severus finished chewing his mouthful of kipper sandwich before replying. "The address itself is 'Bolt Hole'. Once you've provided the floo with the address, you will be stopped at the grate itself, where you give the password. It is 'blubberdeen'," he said the last with a scowl.

Potter wrinkled his nose and reached up to rub lightly at his temples. "Dumbledore owns this place, then." It wasn't a question.

"Indeed," Severus replied. He was about to finish the last of his own lunch when his Mark began to flare. _A general summons. It's a bit early in the day for such, but no one ever accused him of being logical._ He wolfed down the last of his sandwich and stood. "I will return later," he said, then disapparated.

Harry was left looking at a crumb-strewn bit of table, with more crumbs on the counter, next to the still-open jar of spicy mustard and half of an onion. "I'm not a damn house elf," he grumbled. He finished his soup and washed only those dishes which he had used, then retreated back to his room long enough to retrieve the stack of letters he'd written and the sack of galleons he kept in his trunk, then headed for the floo.

* * *

Morag Isabel MacDougal followed her mother at a distance. Imogene MacDougal, nee Nutcombe, was too busy chatting with her sister to chastise the girl. Even though summer had barely begun, Morag intended to get her school things. One instance of tripping across classmates in late August had been more than enough. _I'd just like to know what I ever did to them._ Seeing that her mother and Aunt Irene had apparently decided to stop and have tea at a small café, Morag ducked into Flourish and Blotts.

Within ten minutes, she had her books purchased and was busy leafing through Advanced Potion-Making while heading for the door. Without looking up, she absently exited the shop and was immediately plowed over and knocked clean off her feet.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" The voice was vaguely familiar, but Morag couldn't place it just then. Unwelcome hands helped her to her feet and picked up her dropped book. The bag containing her other purchases was still slung over her elbow, though it now looked slightly worse for wear. "Seriously," the voice continued as she methodically brushed dust off her robes, "I didn't see you. I'm sorry."

Morag took her book back from her assailant and finally realized who he was. "Don't worry about it, Potter," she said. "Nothing's bruised except my pride." She dropped Advanced Potion-Making into the bag with her other books and started to step around him. He moved to block her way. She finally met his gaze and sighed in exasperation. "Is there something else you wanted?"

"You sure you're okay?" He seemed honestly worried.

Morag shrugged. "Yeah. I am."

"Let me buy you an ice cream to make up for it. I really do feel like an arse for not watching where I was going." He finally moved aside, but it left her aimed towards Fortescue's.

_Who am I to turn down a free ice cream cone?_ "Fine," she replied and began threading her way through the light midday traffic. Glancing at her mother and aunt, she could tell they were going to be at least a couple of hours – her aunt was making the grandiose hand gestures which meant they'd devolved into discussing politics.

Harry simply stared after her for a moment before following her. _Not really chatty, is she?_ Since Morag hadn't been in the DA, and Gryffindor had few classes with Ravenclaw, he didn't know much about the girl, aside from rumors that he knew better than to believe. Just about all he did know about her was that she was in his year, pureblooded, and had won an achievement award for something to do with Potions class in their third year, but he couldn't quite remember what the award had actually been _for_. Everything else he knew about her was simply her physical description. She stood at about two inches shorter than Harry, was skeletally thin, and possessed a face that, on a man, could have been considered ruggedly handsome, but on a woman simply seemed disconcerting and out-of-place. Her hair was a mouse-brown color, which hung in spiral curls to the middle of her back, and her eyes were an equally unimpressive muddy hazel.

He jogged a little to catch up with her just in time to open the door to the ice cream shop. After obtaining their treats, they sat at an outside table. Though Morag seemed content to eat her mint-and-lime concoction without speaking, after only a few moments, the silence felt like it was a living thing pressing down on Harry. He cleared his throat and searched for a topic. "Um… Sorry again about knocking you down. Were you getting your school books?"

Morag frowned and nodded. "Yes," she said. _How astute, he actually noticed what store he was running past._ The thought was overly-sarcastic to even her own inner ear.

"Oh," Harry replied. "So, um…"

"You needn't talk if it vexes you so," Morag forcibly restrained the urge to give vent to the caustic tone that wanted to flavor her words. _I think I've spent too long in Professor Snape's company; his sense of humor is leaching into me._

Harry laughed a little. "Just trying to figure out something we can talk about. I mean, I don't really know you, but I do know that you'd probably get up and storm away if I tried talking quidditch."

The corners of Morag's thin lips quirked upwards in the tiniest of smiles. "I do not, for your information, 'storm' anywhere. Though you are correct that I cannot conceive of a more boring topic of conversation than sports of any sort."

"If that's the case," Harry paused to lick his cone, "then what sorts of stuff _do_ you like? Other than potions, I mean. I know you got an award for that a couple of years ago."

Morag shook her head. "I doubt it would interest you."

Harry shrugged. "Won't know that until I hear what it is."

"Genetics," Morag said, her tone and body-language enough that she was clearly expecting to have to explain the meaning of the word.

"Odd choice for a witch."

Morag managed to subdue her surprise at Harry's nonchalant reaction. "My father was a bleeder – the muggles call it hemophilia – and when I was eight, I found out that the disease runs in families, but couldn't find much information on it from wizarding resources. Aunt Ines – my mother's oldest sister, she has four – married a muggleborn, and her husband suggested I try checking in muggle libraries."

"Where I'd imagine you had far better luck."

Morag nodded. Almost against her will, she was actually beginning to enjoy the conversation. "Inordinately. In delving into getting that one question answered, I managed to acquire a vast and unyielding interest in the science. That award you mentioned was simply one of my pet projects into combining the science with magic."

Their conversation managed to stick to its topic over the next several hours, unknowingly lead by Harry's gentle questions, until their ice cream was gone and Morag's mother had come looking for her. Before following her mother back towards The Leaky Cauldron, Morag paused by Harry's side. "This was more fun than I'd thought it might be, Potter. Mum meets up with Aunt Irene every week and usually drags me along. Be here next week, same time, and I'll buy the ice cream. If you manage not to knock me down again, I'll consider allowing you to prattle on about one of your own interests for a bit."

Harry chuckled. "I'll keep it in mind, Morag. See you later."

* * *

Amelia took a moment's break from the never-ending pile of paperwork mounded on her desk to stretch and work a kink out of her neck. Checking her watch, she found that it was half an hour past teatime, so she decided to head over to the break room. On reaching the cluttered, tiled room which was half-lounge and half-kitchen, she found that – wonder of wonders – someone had actually remembered to refill the tea kettle. Someone had also brought in a box of homemade baked goods, of which there were only a couple remaining. She helped herself to an apple tart and a steaming cup of strong tea while filling in a couple of the answers to the _Prophet_'s crossword and then headed back to her desk.

While she'd been out, the mail had arrived. She tossed the adverts, few though there were, directly in the trash without so much as a cursory glance. There were a couple of letters from aurors on leave that she read through, including one from an auror out on maternity leave that included pictures of the witch's newborn. Amelia sat it aside to post to the notice board in the break room. At the very bottom of the stack was a letter she'd not been expecting – the seal in the wax was one she'd not seen in nearly seventeen years.

Amelia broke the seal and withdrew the letter. Tension she was unaware she'd possessed leaked from her spine as she read it.

_Madam Bones;_

_Thank you for your helpful information regarding tutors – I will endeavor to put it to good use this summer. The fact that the wizarding world lacks anything like an estate manager is somewhat disheartening, but I suppose I will have to 'learn on the fly' as it were. Are there any reputable solicitors you could recommend who would be willing to help me wade through the legalistic side of things? Does the wizarding world even have solicitors, or is that just a muggle thing? I would be appreciative of any assistance you could offer. Thank you in advance._

_As to your request to meet to discuss the events in the Dept. of Mysteries, I would be willing, provided that I could have a few of my companions from that night with me and that the meeting take place on neutral ground, so-to-speak. My confidence in the Ministry is not very high; though I trust you to hold to your word, I find myself unable to trust the Ministry as a whole. I'm sure you can understand._

_Sincerely,  
Harry J. Potter_

Amelia sighed and reread the letter again before coming to a decision. She exited her office and headed to level six. Antoine Harper owed her a favor, and would be quite willing to look the other way while Amelia made a quick unauthorized call on the miniature floo on his desk.

She chit-chatted with Harper for a few minutes, and was correct in her assumption that he would be willing to let her use his floo. She connected with her house and waited for Susan to answer. She didn't have to wait long before Susan ran into their sitting room from the direction of the kitchen. "Aunt! Is something wrong?"

"No, sweetheart. Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to let you know that I was going to be late getting home tonight."

"Oh," Susan visibly relaxed. "Hannah was wondering if I could go over to her place for dinner."

Amelia smiled. "Certainly. If it's alright with her mum, you can even spend the night."

Susan grinned. "Thanks! I'm sure it'll be okay."

"I need to go now, sweetie. Have fun at Hannah's."

"I will," Susan replied. "See you tomorrow."

Amelia disconnected the call just as Antoine returned. "Did you get what you needed, Amelia?"

She nodded. "I did indeed. Thank you, Antoine." They continued their chit-chat for another few minutes before Amelia made her excuses and headed to her desk. She dashed off a quick reply to Harry's letter and sealed it into an 'urgent' internal memo origami swan to send up to the owlery. With luck, Potter would get it in time.

* * *

With his numerous letters mailed – the one to Neville carried by Hedwig, all the others handled by for-hire postal owls – and Morag's unexpected company now in the past, Harry figured the Ravenclaw had a good idea and visited the bookstore long enough to get the books he figured he'd need for the upcoming school year. Granted, he wouldn't know with certainty what classes he'd qualify for until the OWL results were released, but he knew which topics he hoped to be able to continue. Granted, he probably already had copies of each book he purchased hidden within his computer's memory, but he couldn't underline important bits or make margin-notes in the digital copies. _Besides, I don't think the professors would be all that open to me pulling out the palmtop when they tell us to 'open your books to page three-ninty-eight'._

A quick stop in Eyelops had Hedwig's treats restocked for the foreseeable future, and then he moved on to the stationary store to replenish his stockpile of parchment and envelopes. He paused in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies long enough to gaze with longing at the latest release of the 'fastest broom ever' – a title which kept switching from broom to broom with each passing year. This year's model was sleek and streamlined, with the foot stirrups angled back along the bristles. It was an odd, metallic, dark red with bronze-colored bristles and, engraved on a slightly longer-than-normal handle in bronze letters, was the legend _Firebolt Snidget_. Below the display was a hovering bit of advertisement for the broom that cycled through three different statements: _Naught to 200 miles per hour in an eyeblink! Change directions instantly, even at full speed! For pricing, see store manager._ A phantom itch, localized in Harry's palms, intensified the longer he looked at the broom. It truly was a work of art, even if it didn't manage to perform to the specifications claimed.

Without quite knowing how he got there, Harry found himself inside the shop and speaking to the cashier, who ducked into a back room to locate the manager. _What the hell are you doing, Potter? Your current broom is fantastic. Why do you need a new one?_ Just as the manager appeared, the other side of his brain chimed in with, _Yeah, I've got the Firebolt Sirius gave me. It was a gift. I don't want anything to happen to it._ While the cashier resumed his post, the manager smiled broadly at Harry and strode up to him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter! I understand you're interested in the latest Firebolt model?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I might be. Any chance I could take it for a test-flight? I'd like to see if it lives up to expectations before actually buying it."

The man's smile flickered out for a split-second, but he nodded. "Certainly, Mr. Potter. Normally, we don't allow such for the racing brooms – liability, you understand – but I don't think it'll be a problem for you. I saw the fancy flying you did during the TriWizard Tournament, after all." He strode over to the window display and carefully extracted the broom as though he were handling the most delicate and precious of treasures from King Tut's tomb. "If you would follow me?" He lead the way to the back of the shop. A rear door opened on to a small yard, no bigger than a half-dozen meters to each side and roughly rectangular; the sides of other buildings formed walls all around it. The manager conjured a chamois on the ground and gently laid the broom on it.

Smiling faintly as he remembered his first-ever flying lesson, Harry stepped up next to the broom and held out his hand. "Up," he commanded. The broom seemed to apparate into his palm, but didn't slap into it like the old school broom had. He wondered briefly if it was because he now had flying experience or if it was unique to the broom. Harry resolved to test it on the broom Sirius had given him later. The new Firebolt thrummed pleasantly in his hand, hovering rock-steady at the perfect mounting height.

He swung a leg over the handle and settled his feet in the redesigned stirrups. Taking a moment to get used to the slightly different position – his feet were far closer together than he was used to – he began putting the broom through its paces.

_Well, the maneuverability is certainly not an exaggeration._ It seemed to respond to his thoughts; indeed, a time or two, it seemed as though it was _anticipating_ Harry's desires. Once he was satisfied with rocketing around the tiny yard, he adjusted his feet, pulled the broom vertical, and shot upwards. He was moving fast enough that his eyes were watering from the wind. Harry was pretty sure he was going faster than the advertised 200 MPH, particularly when, after only a couple of seconds, he halted his upward motion and simply hovered for a moment.

He was extremely high. Looking around, he swore he could make out just the barest hint of the curvature of the earth, particularly where the ocean stretched beyond London. He glanced straight down and grinned. _I can barely see Diagon any more. If it weren't for Gringotts, I don't think I'd be able to._ Concluding his thoughts, he tipped the broom straight down and plummeted.

Harry didn't notice the expression on the manager's face when he pulled out of the dive a mere eight inches from the gravel lot, he was too busy grinning at the broom. Dismounting, he gave it a fond caress, then finally looked over to the manager of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The man had managed to school his expression to one of vague interest, but his complexion was noticeably more pale than it had been when Harry'd first seen him. "Are you okay?" he asked.

The man nodded. Color was slowly coming back into his face. "Yes, Mr. Potter. And you? How did the Firebolt Snidget hold up to its advertising?"

The grin on Harry's face was answer enough for the man, but Harry asked, "How much?"

The manager named a number. Harry countered with a much lower number. The man offered to take twenty-five percent off the sticker price if Harry consented to allow QQS to claim him as endorsing the store. Harry countered with thirty percent and a time-limit of six months. "I am sorry, Mr. Potter, but I simply cannot lower the price more than twenty-five percent. The wholesale cost of the broom is only ten galleons below that mark, and if you figure in my overhead, twenty-five percent is my break-even mark."

"Okay, I suppose I can see that," Harry allowed. "I'm willing to help you out with endorsing, but I would prefer a time-limit on how long you can claim such."

"Standard," the manager said. "The normal timeframe is two years, but this isn't a formal arrangement. Shall we cut that in half?"

Harry considered it for a moment, then held out his hand. "Done."

* * *

Severus glared at Pettigrew. Unfortunately, it wasn't as effective on someone who'd once seen him dangling by his ankles and displaying his grundies to the world as it was on first year students. The rat animagus motioned for Severus to go on in and returned to compiling an updated budget for Voldemort – Pettigrew might have his faults, many in fact, but he could stretch a knut until the acorn depicted on the back grew leaves. Severus took a deep breath and steeled himself for the presence of the Dark Lord.

He entered the office and bowed to Voldemort, then inclined his head in greeting to Rowle and Bellatrix. "How may I serve, milord?"

"Have a seat, Severus," Voldemort replied, conjuring an additional utilitarian wooden chair between Bellatrix's and Thorfinn's. "Tonight, Thorfinn will be leading an attack against Azkaban. Though many of its dementors have escaped the Ministry's control, there are still a handful residing on the island, in addition to the two companies of aurors on duty. I require you to check the medicinals we've in stock, particularly liquid laughter, and bring the stores back up to an acceptable level."

"As you will, milord," Severus replied. "Do you expect casualties enough to warrant bringing a healer in?"

Voldemort shook his head. "No," he said, then grew thoughtful for a moment. "However, it would be best to be prepared."

"If I may, milord," Thorfinn interrupted. At Voldemort's gesture, he continued, "It may behoove us to capture a healer and keep them here for the duration."

Bellatrix scowled at the burly blonde. "And just how do you propose to control them? A healer can't heal while under the imperius."

Thorfinn nodded. "Yes, that's correct. The biggest problem with healing magic is that it all must be willing, true. But I've a target in mind who will be altogether too happy to assist us… Provided we give her the _proper_ motivation, of course."

Bellatrix opened her mouth to argue, but snapped it shut again at a small gesture from her lord. Voldemort looked exceptionally interested in Thorfinn's proposed course. "Just whom did you have in mind?"

"Joanna Caidin, milord. She's second-generation pureblood – her grandfather on her mother's side was muggleborn – but is a very talented healer, particularly with curse and hex damage."

Severus remembered the woman in question; she'd been a first year in his first year of teaching. "Why her and not someone else?" he asked.

Thorfinn glanced at the potion master. "She had some sort of falling-out with her family not long after she left Hogwarts, her husband died two years ago, and she's got a six year old son we can use as leverage."

"Essentially, she won't be immediately missed, is skilled at the type of healing we are most likely to need, and can be controlled," Voldemort's voice gave Thorfinn's idea his stamp of approval. "Excellent notion, Thorfinn. Make sure she and her son are brought here before the attack tonight. Have Selwynn prepare two of our 'guest suites' – I do not want them housed together. If she behaves herself and does as she's told, we can move her later, but for now I want her desperate to do our bidding."

"Yes, milord," Thorfinn replied and settled back against his chair.

"Now, Severus," Voldemort once again turned his attention to Snape. "What can you tell me of Dumbledore and Potter?"

"As to Potter, milord, I'm afraid I can't say much. He left on the train with the rest of the students, though it was no secret that his muggle relations are currently away on an extended holiday. I do not know where Dumbledore has hidden the boy, but I do know he isn't staying with any of his little friends. However, I did finally manage to discern something I know you have wished to possess for quite some time."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at Severus. "And what might that be?"

"The address of the muggle house where Potter lives, milord." The Dark Lord snatched a self-inking quill and a scrap of parchment, then pierced Severus with an expectant look. "It's number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

Voldemort wrote it down and smiled.

Severus suppressed a shudder.

* * *

**A/N2:** I'm sick of seeing incompetent bad guys in my fictional pursuits, hence why I'm making Voldemort and his Death Eaters rather more intelligent than they're usually portrayed in fanfiction. What's the point in making a really strong Harry if his nemesis is a bumbling idiot? It's far more satisfying – in my opinion, be it ever so humble – to see a strong White Hat facing off against an equally strong Black Hat (so well-matched they should be that the reader/watcher should be uncertain as to whom will win in the end), don't you agree?

Thanks for reading, and to all my reviewers, a second thanks and digital baked goods for your opinions!


	13. The Leaky Cauldron

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** This chapter contains a _lot_ of details. Sorry about that, but it had to be done. I hope I manage not to confuse people!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Twelve: The Leaky Cauldron_

Included in the exorbitant purchase price of the Firebolt Snidget was a dragonhide carrying case, a care-and-maintenance kit, and a 'training aid' that consisted of what looked like a large brass ring sporting a marble-sized crystal ball which fit over the end of the handle. According to the instruction leaflet that came with it, the 'training aid' was capable of measuring speed, altitude, compass direction, and g-forces; not particularly useful in and of itself, but a nifty toy Harry looked forward to playing with.

Harry paused by the twins' shop long enough to determine that neither was home before heading back towards the London entrance to the alley. He was just about to go through the archway that separated The Leaky Cauldron from the rest of Diagon Alley when a rather severe-looking horned owl screeched and landed on the narrow end of his broom case.

Thinking it was his OWL results, Harry took the parchment envelope it carried. The bird took off, and he headed on through the arch. The pub was a bit busier than it had been when he'd arrived, so Harry kept his head down and ducked quickly around the people in his way. He just reached the fireplace and was about to avail himself of the floo connection when it flared green and Neville stepped through. Harry grinned. "Hey, Neville."

Neville looked around for a moment before he spotted Harry all but underneath his nose. He chuckled. "Hey yourself. Didn't figure on seeing you here."

Harry shrugged. "Apparently Snape thinks that either letting me look after myself is a good way to keep me from underfoot, or that if I'm not in the safe house then I'll get myself killed and so remove his summer irritation entirely." Harry blinked and amended it with, "Well, mostly entirely."

Neville laid a hand on Harry's shoulder and directed him to one of the few remaining semi-private booths. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry slid his new broom onto the bench before taking a seat. He gestured for Neville to join him. "Well, there's these two girls staying with us right now. They're from France and one of them's some sort of cousin to the great greasy git – she doesn't speak English, though the other one does. I'm betting neither one will last long, though. Neither of them knows how to clean up after themselves, and you _know_ how well that goes over with His Snarkiness."

Neville grinned and nodded. "So, you're figuring they'll run crying home to mummy inside, what, a week?"

"Two at the outside. Think if I explain it to Gred and Forge they'll give me good odds?"

"Maybe so," Neville allowed. "So, you're living with the French versions of Lavender and Parvati?"

Harry grimaced, "Precisely. Before I discovered they were complete slobs, all I heard from them were giggles through the wall. Their bedroom is next door to mine."

"Rotten luck."

"I know." Harry sighed. "Anyway, I sent you a letter, but it seems rather redundant now. Main concern was figuring out a good time to talk over…" he tapped the face of his 'watch'.

Neville nodded, "Yeah. Um… I'm usually pretty busy in the afternoons, so how about morning? Say ten?"

"I can do ten," Harry agreed. "What've you got going in the afternoons?"

"Well, first off, I'm getting my homework out of the way early this summer. After that, I want to redesign my greenhouse. I have a few plants that I don't really need any longer, and a couple of more challenging ones I want to give a try."

"Anything interesting?"

Neville's smile outshone the candles lighting their table. "I've got a cutting from a Vietnamese venomous tentacula that's just about ready for potting, and the seed pod for a Canadian mandrake that's been calling my name ever since Uncle Algie gave it to me for Christmas."

Harry made a face usually reserved for Hagrid's more 'interesting' creatures. "Only you would consider man-eating plants to be a good use of time, Neville."

Neville shrugged. "It's what I'm good at. Just like you're naturally good at flying."

Harry smiled. "Yeah, I know. In any case, I'm looking into hiring tutors for the summer. You want in on the lessons?"

"Do you even need to ask?" Neville may not have been the dedicated scholar that Hermione was, but of the Gryffindor boys, he was the most studious. "I'd love to. Who were you hoping to get?"

"My first choices are a fellow by the name of Pete Smith – he does transfiguration, charms, and potions; someone by the name of A. Dunbarton for mind-magics, wards and set-spells, arithmancy, and runes; and a lady by the name of Cora Pyria, who'd teach healing, defense, and mind-magics."

"Mind-magics?" Neville questioned.

"Occlumency and legilimency, or so I assume," Harry replied.

A waiter finally noticed the pair in the booth and dropped by for their orders. Harry requested tea, but Neville just shook his head. Once the waiter was gone, Neville looked thoughtful for a moment. "I know Miss Pyria. She's the tutor Gran hired to teach me the basics when I finally showed signs of being magical." At Harry's somewhat confused look, he clarified, "Anyone who's certified as a tutor can teach the basics. It's mostly little stuff like how to care for your wand, how to use a quill to write with, and stuff like that. They also make sure you're up to speed on maths and spelling and grammar and whatnot." He let out a little self-depreciating huff of laughter. "I'm pretty sure Miss Pyria despaired of me ever memorizing the times tables."

"Do you know the other two?"

Neville shook his head. "No, not really. I know that Augustine Dunbarton is about the same age as Uncle Algie and that he teaches at Meistr-Ysgol Dewiniaeth, but I don't know him personally. I've never heard of the other before."

"Just what _is_ that Master-Yazgoal-whatever?"

Neville laughed at Harry's mangled pronunciation. "It's Meistr-Ysgol Dewiniaeth. It's Welsh for 'Master School of Wizardry'."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that part out. What is it, though? Some sort of wizarding university?"

"No," Neville shook his head. "They teach the same years that Hogwarts does, but to a far fewer number of students."

"I thought Hogwarts was the only school in the UK?"

"Common misconception, especially since the Board of Governors doesn't want the competition. The main reason they aren't a _major_ source of competition is that they don't have a setup like Hogwarts' – all of their students go home every day. They also don't recruit muggleborn because they simply haven't the manpower for it. The rest of the wizarding world tends not to send students there simply because though they teach wanded magic, they focus more on the ancient druidic methods." Neville paused as the waiter reappeared with Harry's tea. When the man had gone again, he continued. "You can imagine that'd be a bit of a handicap nowadays, what with druidic magic being mostly rituals."

Unaware that there were other methods of casting magic than with a wand – save the few times he'd witnessed wandless magic by Dumbledore, of course – Harry simply shrugged. "Interesting. Not really useful, but interesting." He added some sugar to his tea and then asked, "I've got another question for you, but it doesn't have much to do with anything else."

"Whacha need, Harry?"

"Do you have the slightest idea how to handle a family estate?"

Neville blinked in surprise, then looked sheepish. _I should have realized._ Out loud, he said, "Yeah. Currently, Uncle Algie is the family Head and holds our seat on the Wizengamot, as well as the family title, but since Dad's out of the running, and Grandpa died, I'm next in line. He's been training me about as long as I can remember, even when they thought I might be a squib."

"Does that happen often? A squib as a family Head, I mean?"

Neville shook his head. "No, not really. There's only been two cases in all of wizarding history – Duke Gelmisor Garrott in the 1490s and Countess Rhianwyn Maredudd in around 1660 or so. I'm just happy not to be counted among them." He shook his head to derail the train of thought that threatened to side-track their conversation. "Since you're the last Potter, the title and family leadership falls to you by default. I know better than to ask if Dumbledore has given you any help at all with it."

"Too true. Good thing I've got you around to lend me a hand, huh?"

Neville grinned. "Anything you need, Harry, you know that. Though I'll admit I'm probably not the best one suited for the job. Do you want me to see if Uncle Algie can lend a hand?"

Harry visibly relaxed and slumped a little in his seat. "That would be enormously helpful. Thanks. Doubly so, since Sirius willed me everything."

Neville gave his head a little shake as though to clear water out of his ears. "Everything?"

Harry nodded. "Yup. Found out at Gringotts that the Black family tapestry wasn't just puffing smoke – Sirius could have claimed the Black Baron…ship. Hood? Baron-ness?"

Neville snickered at Harry's verbal groping. "Baronage," he supplied. "And I think you're going to need all the help you can get, if that's any indication."

Harry mock-scowled at Neville, then shrugged. "That _would_ be why I asked, you know." He took a drink of his tea. "You sure you don't want something? My treat?"

Neville glanced at the cup, then at his watch. "Eh, why not? I don't have to be home for another few hours yet." He flagged the waiter and ordered a butterbeer. "From the sound of things, you've got a lot on your plate this summer."

Harry nodded emphatically. "I know. Somehow, I have to figure out how to handle heading two families – even though the population of both at right this moment is just me – and then there's the whole I'm-staying-with-Snape thing, the giggling duo, what Lily said about Dumbledore, and the ever-present threat of Voldemort." He paused for breath. "Hmm… There's a thought. Do you know any spells to copy me so I have a chance in hell of getting all this accomplished before either my relatives return from their trip or before school starts?"

Neville laughed hard enough that foam from his drink bubbled up into his nose. He sneezed twice, then wiped a hand across his face. "Sorry, Harry, but no. If you find one, though, you could easily double your family fortunes overnight." Harry replied with a wan smile. Neville ignored it and continued, "Well, I'm not too sure what you can do about You-Know-Who, nor Dumbledore, and you really _can't_ do much about Snape or your other housemates, so right now you ought to focus on what you _can_ accomplish. Personally, I think you're doing well in getting tutors and whatnot."

"Not really what I wanted to hear, but thanks anyway."

Neville gave a little shrug. "Honesty is always the best policy, or so Gran keeps reminding me." He ran a finger through the ring of condensation his icy butterbeer had left on the tabletop. "You're not the only member of the Black family, you know. As the new Head, you can reinstate disinherited members if you want to, and kick anyone from the family that you want to, the only catch is that they have to have done something that's against the Family Writ."

Harry's brow furrowed. "I know a Family Writ is some sort of code of conduct for a particular family, but I'm really not too clear on what it is or what it's supposed to cover."

"They're magical contracts, of a sort," Neville explained. "They detail general guidelines by which family members are to conduct business, mainly, but can also go into basic public behaviors and so on. Some are only a couple of paragraphs long, others can be the size of one of Hermione's 'light reading' texts. Of the original hundred families, there are roughly fifty or so who've died out or are held in trust; their Writs are public domain. If you write to the Office of Ministerial Records, you can get copies of any of them, but it might be easier to simply hire a solicitor to figure out the legal wording of what you want them to say."

Harry nodded in agreement. "I'll probably go that route, then. Anything else you can tell me about them?"

"Sure," Neville took a drink of his beverage. "They usually only apply to the members of a family who've signed them. It varies from family to family, but the Longbottom Writ is signed as we turn thirteen. Gran said that her family had the age set at fourteen for girls and sixteen for boys. I can't really think of an example that had the signing-age over seventeen, though. They're also supposed to detail what consequences breaking the Writ would cause. Back before the wizarding world withdrew, the punishments could be as bad as death. Current laws forbid that, though. The worst thing you can do now is disinherit someone."

"Doesn't sound all that bad," Harry replied. "I mean, it's not like it actually hurts anyone, it just cuts them out of the will. Right?"

Neville started shaking his head before Harry'd had a chance to finish his first sentence. "No, you're thinking muggle, Harry. A magical disinheritance is no laughing matter. Sure, you're cut out of the will, but that'd be really the least of your worries. When someone's magically disinherited, the first thing that happens is that any and all possessions that were purchased with family funds are transferred to the primary family vault."

Harry grimaced. "That doesn't sound all that pleasant."

"It's not. Imagine suddenly finding yourself starkers and without a wand in the middle of, say, a Hogwarts quidditch match. If you were flying at the time, and your broom was one of the things purchased with family money, then you'd suddenly find yourself plummeting to the ground."

"Urgh."

"Yeah. But it doesn't stop there. The next thing that happens is that any items or monies earned by the person who's being disinherited that were earned using a family talent would be confiscated by the Ministry as 'unbecoming conduct' fines."

"What's a family talent?" Harry asked.

"Just like what it sounds like. For example, look at the Weasleys. Their family talent is actually potions, if you can believe it. Ron's dad actually holds the current record for the highest-ever NEWT score in the subject – a full six points higher than Snape." He took another drink of his butterbeer. "Now, let's set up a for-instance. I've no idea what's included in the Weasley Writ, but let's just say that one of the clauses states that all Weasleys must complete all seven years of their education and that the penalty for breaking it is disinheritance. So, in this example, Fred and George would be stripped of everything they own that was originally bought by their parents. Next, they'd lose all money they'd earned from any potions-based sales, as well as any items purchased with that money."

Harry let out a low whistle. "That wouldn't leave them with a whole lot, would it?"

Neville cheerfully agreed. "Nope. But that's the idea. Anyway, after stripping a person of all family-originated funds and such, the disinheritance next would strip them of their name. It actually registers at the Ministry as 'Female Nameless, formerly known as' or 'Male Nameless, formerly known as'. If you dig back into some of the current families, you'll find they originated with a disinherited Nameless, though most of the time the current members will say they're descended from muggleborns instead. Winding up Nameless is worse than being a half blood or muggleborn, simply because in most cases, winding up Nameless was something you actually _did_, rather than from circumstances outside your control."

"I can see that, I suppose." Harry finished off the tea in his cup and refilled it from the pot. "If someone winds up Nameless, though, are they stuck that way or can they choose a new name?"

"They're only stuck if they can't get adopted into another family," Neville clarified. "They can choose to go by any name they want, but unless they're taken into another family, then any official documents have to be signed 'Male Nameless' or 'Female Nameless'."

Harry shivered a little. "It all sounds rather… unpleasant."

"Barbaric, you mean."

Harry nodded. "Yeah." His expression clearly asked a question.

Neville shrugged. "I explained parts of this to Hermione, and that was how she described it. She'd wanted to know if Sirius' mum blasting him off the tapestry was just a bit of pique or if it was part of some sort of spell she didn't know about. Since Sirius could still claim his name – and wound up inheriting everything – we know he wasn't disinherited, so the tapestry-thing was just a fit of temper. However, if you look through the records, which Hermione did, by the way, you'll find that Andromeda _was_ disinherited. She didn't lose her name simply because she'd married by then, and when you marry into a family, you cease being considered as a part of your birth family, unless you divorce and return to it. Andromeda's case is special, though. She married a muggleborn, so his family obviously isn't governed by a Writ."

Harry nodded. "So… That means what, exactly?"

"It means that she and her husband and their offspring can be brought into an existing family as vassals."

Harry shook his head. "Somehow, I don't think they'd want to be servants."

Neville rolled his eyes. "Not what it means. In this case, being a vassal simply means that they are considered to be under the protection of an existing wizarding family and subject to that family's Writ. It lends legitimacy to the lesser families and muggleborns. As much as we would both rather it be otherwise, your family name can make or break you in this world."

Harry nodded, thinking of the differences he'd observed between the Malfoys and Weasleys. "So what happens if a vassal breaks his… I suppose 'adopted' is the best word that fits. Breaks his adopted family's Writ and it's something that would normally cause a disinheritance?"

"Same thing – they'd lose anything provided by family money, but since they're not actual bloodline, the 'unbecoming' fines are assessed at fifty percent of their liquid assets. They wouldn't lose their names, obviously, but they would find that they carry the same stigma as a Nameless. Notifications of granted vassals or those who've been rejected are in the public announcements section of the _Prophet_, alongside the wedding announcements, birth notices, and obituaries."

"Have to say I feel like I should be taking notes," Harry joked. "But thanks for the information. I'll try to remember it all."

"You won't have to – if Uncle Algie agrees to help you out, he'll drill you on it until you're dreaming in Writs and Consequences."

They both chuckled at that, and their conversation drifted to less serious matters.

* * *

For the first time in literally years, Amelia left her office at precisely five o'clock. She promised herself to work through lunch for the next couple of days to make up for taking off 'early'. To her pleasant surprise, she even managed to make it to the floo without being waylaid by any of her Ministerial coworkers needing her to sign anything or just wanting to chat. She threw down the powder and stated her destination clearly; she'd long since learned that clarity was far more important than volume when directing the network. Stepping out at her destination, she quickly polished her monocle on a corner of her robes before scanning the evening crowd at The Leaky Cauldron. _I do hope Potter received my note._

A bit of tension leaked from her shoulders as she spotted him sitting across from a vaguely-familiar boy with dark blonde hair in one of the semi-private booths. She strode over. "Excuse me," she said at a break in the boys' discussion of whether rictusempra or aguamenti was more effective at waking up unsuspecting roommates.

The blonde boy's smile fell off his face as he tried to stand without sliding out of the booth first. "Madam Bones," he squeaked. Suddenly, she recognized who he was. _Frank and Alice's boy. What was his name again…? Neville. That's it._ "Good evening, and don't worry about standing, Mr. Longbottom. Good evening to you, too, Mr. Potter."

"Madam Bones," Harry nodded to her. He tipped a broom case on end to rest in the corner of the booth bracketed by the wall and slid over. "Care to join us?"

She sat in the empty area he provided. "Thank you. I see you got my letter."

Harry blinked in confusion. "Letter?"

"Or maybe not," Amelia said. "Just out for the evening, then?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I had a few errands to run and bumped into Neville before I made it home." He finally realized just what letter Madam Bones was referring to and dug it out of his pocket. "I got this just before coming in to the pub, but I didn't realize it was from you."

"It's just a request to meet me here, which is rather superfluous at this moment in time."

Neville finally regained his voice. "I ought to go now," he said.

Harry shook his head and motioned for Neville to stay. "Only if your Gran's expecting you home. I suppose Ma'am Bones here would like to talk to you, too."

Director Bones nodded and retrieved her wand from its concealment pocket inside her sleeve. She quickly cast several charms ensuring privacy. "I would indeed," she said, returning the wand to its pocket. "It's about the incident in the Department of Mysteries," she explained.

Over the course of the next hour, both boys answered her questions concerning the incident. Once she finished her questions, Neville begged off, indicating that he really did have to go home. After the boy left, Amelia moved to the other side of the table and took down her privacy charms. "What about you?" she asked. "Are you expected home soon, too?"

Harry shook his head. "Not that I know of, ma'am." He watched as she caught the attention of the waiter. "I take it you had something more you wanted to discuss?"

Amelia nodded, "Yep. Nothing too horrid, I don't think." She was interrupted by the waiter and paused long enough to order some supper. Harry decided to follow her example as his stomach was complaining about the amount of time since lunch. After the waiter had once again left their table, Amelia returned her attention to Harry. "Firstly, I wanted to say 'thank you' in person for your help with Susan's defense OWL."

Harry blushed a little at the implied compliment. "It was no bother, really."

Amelia narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't give me that. I know for a fact that Umbridge singled you out all year long, or do you enjoy having that scar on the back of your hand?" She gestured to the words permanently etched on his right hand.

Harry looked at the scar and flexed his hand a couple of times, remembering how much it had ached after an Umbridge detention. "She'd have singled me out even if I hadn't been running the study group, ma'am," he replied. "She wasn't too appreciative that I kept insisting Voldemort was back."

"You needn't mince words around me, Mr. Potter – Umbridge is the mankiest minger ever to disgrace the human race and is incapable of finding her arse with both hands and a map, probably because her own head is so far up Fudge's sphincter that all we ever see are her toes wriggling around." Amelia laughed at the reaction her words engendered in her companion; his face grew bright red, bordering on purple, and she could tell he was both embarrassed and amused at her description of the former defense professor.

Harry coughed, took a sip of his tea, and willed his blush to die down. It wasn't so much the words themselves that caused it, more the fact that they were coming from a highly respected individual. "I can't say that I disagree with that, ma'am."

Amelia sighed and rolled her eyes at him. "Quit calling me 'ma'am', or I'll curse your knees backwards. I'm _not_ that old. My name's Amelia – please use it."

"Alright, Amelia," Harry's blush finally seemed to be under control and his normal complexion was beginning to return. "I'm Harry, then."

"Good enough for me," Amelia replied. "I did want you to know that she is currently under investigation for multiple abuses of power during her stint as Hogwarts High Inquisitor, so spread the word. We could use all the witness testimony we can get."

"I will," Harry assured her.

The arrival of their dinners interrupted further conversation for several moments. After they were once more left to their own devices, Amelia took a bite of her shepherd's pie. "Hmm… Not too bad, I suppose, but it could use more marjoram."

Harry ignored her comment on the meal in favor of addressing a bite of his own food. Taking care not to talk with his mouth full, he asked, "Was that all, Amelia, or was there something else?"

Amelia nodded, "Yeah, one more thing. After hearing your description of what happened in the Department of Mysteries, I'm extending you a VBA license."

"A _what_?"

She took a drink of water before answering. "A Vigilante, Bounty-hunter, and Assassin's license – essentially, what it does is protects you from prosecution for protecting yourself from Death Eaters and their master. Basically, it makes you an auror without the additional three years of training, but you won't be called to work on crime scenes, you will only have minimal paperwork, and a few other minor details."

Harry's expression was an odd amalgam of smile and frown. "That's… Well, I'm of two minds about it. On the one hand, I'm grateful – I've had more than one nightmare over the past year that consists of me finally getting rid of the Dark Tosser, only to get thrown in Azkaban for killing him. On the other, I can't see Fudge being too happy about it."

Amelia grinned, the expression put Harry in mind of a bloodthirsty feline. "Don't worry about Fudge," she said. "As of ten o'clock tomorrow morning, it will take divine intervention for that man to keep the post as Minister of Magic. A no-confidence petition was sent 'round today, and by the time I got it, there were the signatures of better than ninety percent of the Ministry's employees on it."

Harry smirked. "Any idea who they'll get to run things in the meantime?"

Amelia shrugged and shook her head. "No clue. Since they have to be a department head, I'd recommend Sidheag Glas, from the Department of Magical Catastrophes." (1) She took another bite of her meal. "She's particularly good at management, knows when to delegate and when to step in personally."

Since Harry'd never heard of her, he couldn't form an opinion. "I'll defer to your judgment on that, Amelia. But if Fudge is out, then won't the BVA license you mentioned wind up not needed?"

"It's VBA, Harry, and not at all. You'll want it just in case this drags on past the general elections next fall. You never know what sort of idiocy the public will vote into office, the next one might be worse than Fudge. That's why I'm issuing the license. It can't be revoked."

"Ah, I see." Harry nodded. "Makes sense. In that case, I accept."

Much as had happened with Neville earlier, from there their conversation meandered across a litany of topics. By the time Harry indicated he needed to leave – at close to eleven – Amelia had a very strong impression of him which only reinforced her initial assessment of his character. _He's sharp as a tack, certainly, but woefully ignorant of how the wizarding world works. I've spoken with muggleborns who had a better understanding of us than he's got – I have to wonder just what Dumbledore is up to. It's his responsibility to ensure that his students are prepared for their life in this world, doubly so for the last surviving Head of one of the original families. Why does it seem that he's been keeping Harry in the dark?_ Amelia ordered a jigger of Moondrop Vodka. She sipped at the metallic purple liquor while continuing her contemplation of one Harry Potter until Tom shouted out 'last call' at nearly one in the morning, unaware that lingering might have managed to save her life.

* * *

**A/N2:** You can skip this if you like. I'm just going to rant a bit. Okay, now that the warning is out of the way, I'd like to express my extreme dislike of the blatant misuse of Pepperup in fandom. According to canon, all Pepperup does is cure the common cold. It is not some sort of superior version of caffeine, nor is it a magical cure-all. It cures the cold. End of story. Come on, people, can't you get it right for once? If you need something that will keep your characters going for days on end, MAKE SOMETHING UP because there is NO SUCH THING IN CANON. I followed my own advice with the goblin-made potion Harry drank back at the start of this tale. It's not hard, you know. You have an effect you need, it happens to be one not covered in canon, ergo you make it into something new. What I find particularly frustrating is that I've seen this happen in fics by people who've canon-picked (like nit-picking, only more irritating) such insignificant details in other stories as the composition of Ron's wand! Okay. End of rant.

1.) Sidheag – pronounced as SHE-ak. Gaelic for wolf, or so the internet claims.

The next chapter ought to have more action. Sorry about that, but exposition has to happen sometime.

Thanks to all my reviewers out there, and even if you don't review, I know you're reading! I do keep tabs on my hits and visitors.


	14. The Dark Side

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Please keep in mind that this is rated M for a reason. In this chapter, we see some death and gore. Just so you know.

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Thirteen: The Dark Side_

Healer Caidin finished her rounds right on time. She didn't have too many patients, not like some weeks, just an older man who'd been hexed rather severely by his wife when said wife had found out about his nineteen year old mistress. Michael Robertson was sixty-eight, in relatively good health otherwise, and scared enough of his wife that he wasn't hollering to go home, so Healer Caidin felt secure in leaving him to the night shift. Even with her having the next day off, if anything unforeseen came up, his interim healers knew to floo her. Joanna stripped out of her uniform in the locker room, changing into a pair of blue jeans and a plain t-shirt; she'd promised her son that they'd have dinner in muggle London.

Joanna then made her way from Saint Mungo's to her babysitter's flat above a secondhand shop in Diagon Alley. "How was he today, Lorna?" she asked the recent Hogwarts graduate, watching her son color.

"Pretty good, Miss Caidin. He didn't want his nap at two, but he settled right quick when I reminded him you said you'd take him out into London tonight," the former Ravenclaw replied.

Joanna nodded and thanked the sitter. She then turned to her son. "Ian, you ready to go?"

Ian looked up and grinned. "Mum! We still goin' out to eat?" He jumped up and ran over to her.

She scooped him up and gave the boy a squeeze. "Yes, we are. Get your shoes and jacket so we can go." She sat him back on his feet. The boy immediately scurried to do as he was told.

Ten minutes later, they left Lorna's place, unaware they'd acquired an unwelcome tail.

Serena Moxon moved through the evening crowd, making sure to keep her targets well in view, prepared to stop and 'window shop' at a moment's notice, but her caution was unneeded. Caidin and her son headed directly for The Leaky Cauldron without stopping. Serena sped up a little, not wanting to lose them in the pub. She also wanted to make sure she was close enough to hear their destination when they flooed out. Slipping through the doors heartbeats after they'd closed behind the mother and son, Serena first looked towards the public hearth. When that didn't reveal her quarry, she then glanced towards the London door.

_Damn,_ echoed through her head as she saw the duo disappear to the right of the door. _I hate muggle London_. She paused barely long enough to transfigure her robes into a muggle-style dress before following them. Luck was with her. The boy had halted in his tracks outside the record shop next door and was staring at it in awe. Serena brushed past them – neither noticed her. She used a small pocket-mirror to keep an eye on them while scanning the immediate area and formulating a plan. _Maybe being muggleside won't be as big of a problem as I'd feared._ She slipped into a small crack of a passageway between two buildings and waited. _As long as they don't call for a motor-carriage, I think I'll be able to grab them before anyone notices._

Luck was with her and the healer and her son eventually moved past the record shop, heading for the nearest underground station. Just as they passed Serena's hiding place, she reached out and tugged them into the alcove with her. Before either of her targets could realize what was going on, she silently stupefied both, then activated her portkey.

An old man who claimed the narrow passageway as his home was the only witness to the kidnapping, but after twenty years of living on handouts and booze, it wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever seen. In fact, he'd forgotten about it completely by the time the sun had descended and the city had grown dark.

* * *

It was closing in on ten o'clock at night. The weather was overcast, but warm – the dementors had yet to migrate as far south as Hadrian's Wall, so London was as yet unaffected by their presence. Two women, tall and pale, strolled purposefully through Hyde Park. The few people who deigned to notice them immediately found other things to do as both of them radiated deadly purpose.

"How much longer, Bellatrix?" the taller of the pair asked.

"Three minutes." Bellatrix returned her watch to its pocket. "You're certain you have the right building in sight?"

"Yes. He has the top floor in that one," she pointed to one of the expensive-looking apartment buildings across the street, not bothering to lower the omnioculars she was using.

"Remember, quick and quiet, Alecto. Our lord doesn't want any unnecessary damage this time around."

Alecto glared out the corner of her eye. "I understand. Just Scrimgeour. Leave his filthy mudblood piece of tail and their lamentable spawn alone." She returned her attention to watching the flat in question. "Okay, they're home." She fixed the image of the Scrimgeour sitting room in her mind and prepared to apparate as she handed the omnioculars to Bellatrix.

Bellatrix looked through them long enough to likewise fix the image in her mind before tucking the omnioculars into a pocket of her cloak. She nodded at Alecto and apparated.

The Scrimgeour family was home, but the only one currently up and about was Fiona – the man's muggleborn wife – poking around in the kitchen. She'd not heard the quiet _pops_ from her sitting room and didn't realize anything was wrong until she landed on the floor, the victim of a silent petrificus. Alecto and Bellatrix immediately moved to either side of the kitchen archway and waited to see if the noise of her hitting the floor would attract any further attention. Almost a full four minutes passed before one of the three mini-Scrimgeours appeared.

"Mummy?" the child, who was approximately five, padded into the kitchen, blinking owlishly in the light. She caught sight of her fallen mother and backed right into Alecto.

Alecto didn't think, she just reacted. She immediately pushed the sprog away in disgust and whipped her wand out. "Reducto!" she hissed, and the child's head exploded like a blood-laden tick exposed to direct flame. The odd squelching noise it made was surprisingly quiet, the _tock_ as larger chunks landed on the floor and bounced off the walls only slightly louder. The look on Bellatrix's face was enough to tell Alecto that she was angry, but Alecto didn't let it worry her. It was an acceptable deviation from their orders – the loathsome little parasite had _touched_ her!

Bellatrix didn't get a chance to speak her mind before Rufus Scrimgeour's voice called out, "Fiona? You ever coming back to bed, dear?"

A moment later, he appeared in the doorway. "Avada kedavra," Bellatrix and Alecto managed the spell simultaneously.

Scrimgeour crumpled, his lifeless eyes staring at the gore-dusted contents of his kitchen. The Death Eaters apparated onto the flat's roof. "Mors mordre," Alecto summoned the spectral Dark Mark. They then apparated back to headquarters.

* * *

If any Death Eater could be considered Voldemort's right hand, Mycroft Selwynn was it. Not only did he never manage to wind up in Azkaban for any amount of time, but he was never named at any of the trials. The secret to his success where others had failed was threefold: Firstly, the only person among their ranks who knew his first name was Voldemort himself. Secondly, Selwynn, though a highly skilled practitioner of the dark arts, never allowed himself to be seen as anything more than a mildly eccentric, unobtrusive, polite, and kindhearted storekeeper who always had the time to chitchat with an adult and who always had a piece of candy for a child. Finally – and most importantly – Selwynn was a metamorphmagus who had managed to keep his abilities secret from everyone, even Voldemort. He had one face for his secondhand bookshop on Diagon Alley, and a different one for his after-hours activities, neither of which was his 'natural' face. No one in Britain, not even Voldemort, knew Selwynn's natural face; he had graduated from NMMA, the New Mexico Magical Academy, in the US. His voice didn't give him away, however, he was also skilled at mimicking accents; the other Death Eaters assumed him to be German, while the patrons of his bookshop thought him Irish. Again, only Voldemort knew the truth.

The pair of dark wizards apparated to the edge of the country estate where Amelia Bones lived with her niece. Silently, they slipped through a thin line of forest blocking the estate from view of the nearest town. Arriving at the edge of a manicured lawn, both wizards looked the house over. Selwynn fought not to wince as his lord expressed his displeasure vocally – the house was empty.

"Burn it down," Voldemort ordered after regaining control of his temper.

Selwynn bowed. "As you command, my liege."

It took him half an hour to dismantle the fire-suppression spells on the house, and a further hour to erase the wards, but by the time he and Voldemort apparated back to headquarters at midnight, the Bones house was a blazing inferno with a ghostly green Dark Mark hovering in the smoke.

* * *

The team portkeyed to the mainland coast where, in the daytime, a small speck on the horizon revealed Azkaban. The weather was, as always on this little spit of gravel, inordinately dreary, cold, and damp. Rowle coiled the rope portkey, shrunk it, and placed it in a pocket of his trousers before lighting a small fire in the center of the loosely-gathered group. From the pocket on the opposite side, he withdrew a small wooden box. He sat it on the ground before enlarging it. It grew to roughly the same size as a student trunk. Thorfinn unlocked it with a special key he kept on a chain around his neck. The rest of the team crowded a little closer to the fire as a sharp wind bit through their cloaks.

"Each pair is going to have a set of two-way mirrors," Rowle said, digging around in his box of tricks for the necessary equipment. He came up with four circular compacts. He handed the silver one to Amycus. "You're paired with Teddy Nott."

Amycus took the mirror and motioned for the weedy-looking teenager to come stand with him. Said teen was feeling mutinous at being called 'Teddy', but wasn't about to screw up, not when the purpose of tonight's action was to bring his father home. He stalked over to Carrow. Thorfinn sat the other three compacts on top of some other miscellaneous junk and opened a shoebox-sized leather-covered box. Inside were numerous identical crystal pendants, glowing slivery-blue. He removed two of them and slipped one over Amycus' head. Theodore halted Rowle from doing the same to him by grabbing the burly blonde's wrist. "What is it?"

"It's protection from the dementors that remain on the island, boy." Rowle had little patience for children and it showed in his patronizing tone. "Crystal's made of concentrated patronus energy." The boy released Thorfinn's hand and allowed the pendant to be placed over his head. Rowle picked up the next compact in the stack, this one made of bronze. "Next pair are the Goyles." Elmer steered his son with a heavy hand on his shoulder until they were standing where Amycus and Teddy had been a moment earlier. Neither made a sound as the mirror and pendants were handed over. After they returned to the relative warmth of the fire, Thorfinn grabbed the next mirror. "Gibbon, you're with Junior," he said. Much like Theodore had, Vincent Crabbe resented Rowle for using his 'kid name', but unlike Teddy, Junior couldn't claim the name as inappropriate – he was nearly a carbon copy of his father and shared the man's name.

While they were receiving their equipment, Draco sidled over to stand next to Yaxley. Yaxley wasn't his first choice for partner, but Draco had to admit to himself that he much preferred the man over Amycus. "Guess it's us, then." Yaxley didn't reply, not aloud, but his glare clearly indicated he thought the younger Malfoy to be severely lacking in brainpower. After receiving their mirror and pendants, they stepped back to the fire.

Thorfinn put away the box of necklaces and proceeded to unearth a potions crate from the mess of his trunk. He opened it, revealing double-rows of single-use vials and numerous small parchment packets. The kit contained only one type of potion, but the contents of the parchment packets had been dastardly hard to come by. He pulled the first packet out, read the label, and added the hair it contained to the first vial of potion. It foamed slightly. Handing it to Amycus, he said, "You're John Dawlish."

Carrow smirked and let out a wheezy giggle before downing the polyjuice. After it had taken effect, he transfigured his robes to better fit the taller wizard's frame.

One by one, the entire team, save Thorfinn, took the forms of aurors, with spare vials of keyed polyjuice secreted in pockets. Putting the potion box away, Thorfinn looked each of his team in the eye. "Our objective tonight is to take Azkaban. Our Lord wishes to possess the fortress. However, should this prove beyond our capabilities, He has indicated He would not be unpleased should we only be able to rescue His followers who languish there. To accomplish these tasks, your orders are thus: Be silent. Yes, you now wear the guises of individuals expected to be seen within the prison, but it is best not to have to rely on trying to actually _be_ the people you now resemble. Are all of you capable of casting a slicing hex silently?" Everyone nodded. "Good. Use it to cut the throats of any guards you come across. Hopefuls," he addressed the teens of each pair. "You are expected to take no action without the permission of your partner, shields aside. Watch your backsides. If all goes well tonight, you will be given the opportunity to take the Dark Mark on our return to headquarters.

"In addition to silence," he continued, "your orders include to be swift. You should not need to take the second doses of polyjuice. Release our Lord's followers, certainly, but if any of the other prisoners ask for release, let them out, but be sure they know who to thank. You are encouraged to make them think that being released and _not_ choosing to serve our Lord will result in… _unpleasant_ ramifications." He paused to allow the team to trade grins. "Should you be successful in clearing the guards, send up green sparks from the roof _and_ contact me on the mirrors. I will contact our Lord and let him know we were successful. If you are not able to do so, the chains on the necklaces double as portkeys back to headquarters. Should you need to use them, the activation phrase is 'falcon', and once you arrive – one of our number is monitoring the arrival point for just such an occurrence – I will be contacted. If I do not see green sparks or hear back from you or our comrades back in HQ within two hours, I will be forced to assume our mission failed and that you now number among the residents of Azkaban. Should this worst-case-scenario come to pass, I cannot say with certainty that our Lord will wish a second attempt anytime soon."

Everyone gathered around the tiny campfire knew that meant that if they were captured, the Dark Lord would likely leave them to rot within the prison, if only to teach them a lesson. Resolve to _not _fail seeped into the group and spines straightened. Thorfinn handed each of them a shrunken broom from his trunk. "I expect to see green within thirty minutes," he said, dismissing the group to their task.

He dug the partner to the two-way mirrors out of his trunk – it was wooden and contained all four partners in their own small frames, two on the right and two on the left, with a hinge down the middle. Rowle closed his trunk lid, cast a warming charm on himself and a small wind-barrier around the fire, before sitting on the trunk to wait.

* * *

The healer had been dumped on the small bed of one of the unused cells in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. Altogether, the dungeon boasted a scant six cells, each with stone walls, ceiling, and floor, with a small wooden, iron-banded door. Anti-apparition and anti-portkey spells were laid on each. The cells were each about three meters long and two meters wide, obviously engineered to house more than one 'guest' at a time, with a stone basin set into the wall opposite the door. Next to the basin was the wizarding world's precursor to the modern toilet – a vanishing commode – also carved into the wall. The cell had never possessed furniture before, but since the Death Eaters had to walk a very fine line with their new 'visitor', one was brought in. It reminded Severus of the beds in the student dorms, even though it lacked a canopy and curtains. Currently, it was little more than a thick pad on a stout wooden frame.

Severus had used some minor transfiguration on his face to make sure that their captive healer wouldn't recognize him. It had nothing to do with being identified as a Death Eater and everything to do with the fact that the young woman had been one of his students. Normally, he didn't bother to disguise himself from the victims of the Death Eaters, but since he had to prepare the potions the healer would need, they would wind up working together; the absolute last thing Severus needed were the inevitable recriminations of 'I knew you were evil, Snape!' And so, he sported plain brown hair, cut short, topping a rounder face with a smaller nose and fuller lips. He couldn't do much about his voice, though, so he used an old trick – he fell back into the patterns of speech he'd possessed as a child, before voracious reading had inflated his vocabulary and smoothed out the grammatical imperfections. Severus sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them to the elbow, then aimed his wand at the unconscious woman. "Rennervate," he incanted.

Joanna Caidin bolted upright and shouted, "Ian!"

Severus pushed her back down on the surface of the bed. "Calm down. Yer boy's okay, swear." He successfully managed to keep a grimace off his face when he realized that he sounded suspiciously like Hagrid.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, pulling away from his touch. "Where am I? Where's Ian?"

"Yer boy's fine, like I said. He ain't the first kid we housed, an' won't be the last. An' if ye do as yer tol', ye will get ta see 'im soonish. As ta where ye be, 'at's easy." He showed the woman his Dark Mark.

Caidin fell very still. "Wh-what do you want of me?"

"Same as ye do fer othern – yer healin'. Ain't like such as me c'n stroll in Mungo's, not an' stay outta Azkaban. Can't serve milord from prison." The longer Snape spoke, the more he had to fight to keep his childhood accent under control. "Ye do as yer tol', an' if milord's pleased, ye will get rewards. Displease 'im, though, an' ye might hafta watch yer boy skinned alive. Don' mean ta scare ye, just tellin' ye the lay o'the land. Follow orders an' ain't no reason ye an' yer boy can't walk outta here."

The woman closed her eyes and Severus knew she was weighing the truth of his words. After several minutes, she opened them again. "What do I call you?" her voice was flat.

"Toby," Severus replied. As this wasn't the first time he'd opted to use a disguise around a prisoner, the other Death Eaters would know who she meant should she ask for him. "Ye need sommat, ye ask fer me. If ye've done good, an' milord okays it, then ye will get whacha ask fer, within reason. Now, I can't let ye see yer boy, not yet, but anythin' else ye need?"

She shivered and started to shake her head, but stopped before it moved more than an inch to the right. "A jumper?"

Snape nodded. "Done. It'll be brought down with yer dinner. I'll send some blankets fer the bed, too. Won't do fer ye to get sick, not when yer s'posed to keep us in one piece." He stood and left the cell. Once the door had shut behind him, he dispelled his facial alterations. He then cast a set-spell on the door to the woman's cell; it would alert him if anyone tried to enter. Severus trusted the honor of the Death Eaters about as far as he could throw a dragon, regardless of the fact that the Dark Lord had flatly stated that they were only to interact with their new healer if they needed her services. Before calling out to the guard to let him out of the corridor where the cells were located, Severus dug a long chain out from under his clothes. On it hung multiple small gold medallions, most of which were portkeys to various locations. He sorted through the metal circles until he found one lacking a design. He transfigured it to depict a small bass-relief of a crossed bone and wand, overlaid with the image of a key, then spelled it to bring him to this empty bit of corridor outside her door.

* * *

Ron tossed and turned in his sleep. Memory combined with imagination to provide him with a brand-new horror. He was dodging spells, racing through the Department of Mysteries. He ducked through an open door to find himself falling through space. Saturn turned into a tentacled brain that reached out and stopped his eternal plunge.

_Yes,_ it hissed in his head, _fresh meat…_ He tried to pry it off his arm, but the tentacle burned into his flesh, turning into sticky strands of burning spider web. His pulse pounding in his ears, he looked back at the brain to find it was now an enormous arcomantula, twice the size of Aragog. Ron tried to scream, but he couldn't even breathe.

A spell sizzled out of the darkness surrounding them, hitting the spider right in its collection of eyes. Bill strolled up. "Honestly, Ronniekins, you'd think you could defend yourself against a simple brain. Maybe you ought to learn how to use yours, don't you think?" Bill laughed. "But that's the point! You don't! And you honestly think Hermione really likes _you_? She only tolerates you because Harry does."

Before Ron could reply, Bill fell through a hole poked in Uranus, and Ron was floating alone in the dark.

A flash of light drowned him and he was back in the Department of Mysteries, ducking curses. Luna flew through the air, slid across a desk, and crumpled to the floor in an undignified sprawl. Ron's eyes were dragged back to the tank of green liquid, but the tank was empty. _Where are the brains?_ Something tapped his shoulder. Ron spun around to find he was face-to-tentacles with a brain. It wrapped its burning ropes around his head.

Ron finally managed to scream. He blinked at the orange of his bedroom, wondering what he'd been dreaming about that had his heart slamming so hard. When no one came running, he flopped back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling. _Okay, maybe I didn't scream._

He tried to ignore the distant thought that said he _had_, but no one cared enough to check on him.

After about half an hour, he was asleep again.

And he was running, dodging hexes and curses, a giant brain with octopus-like tentacles running at his heels like a well-trained dog.

* * *

**A/N2:** Is it bad that I enjoy thinking like a Death Eater?

And did I read the article on Yahoo News correctly? Mary Poppins out-dueled Voldemort at the Olympics' opening ceremony? *gigglesnort*

Anyway, thanks to everyone who's reading this! Keep in mind I enjoy hearing feedback; even concrit is welcome, but flames will be laughed at.


	15. Lily Returns

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Please keep in mind that this is AU – I'm only keeping those bits of HBP and DH which suit my purposes. And I apologize for the no-doubt magled French contained in this chapter. I can only retranslate so many times on the interwebz! Anyway, this one's a tad longer than usual, but I hope you like it anyway. Happy reading!

* * *

**Shades of Gray**

_Chapter Fourteen: Lily Returns_

Hermione's parents both had early appointments with patients this morning, and so she had slept in before taking her breakfast – fried eggs, an apple, and a glass of milk – and the paper out on the garden deck. Emilia had disappeared the evening before, claiming 'things to do'. Hermione had no idea what an hallucination might have to do, but she didn't let it bother her any. Emilia would return, of that she had no doubt. Until then, she'd intended to get caught up on the news from the wizarding world. Pure chance had her unfold the current day's paper first.

_**Head Auror Murdered in Home  
Bones Residence Burned to Ash  
Azkaban Falls to Death Eaters**_

The headlines took up half of the front page of _The Daily Prophet_. Hermione's hands shook while she read, making the paper rattle softly.

_At ten o'clock last night, the head of the Auror Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic was slain through application of the killing curse. Rufus Scrimgeour, aged 46, was killed in his home in an affluent muggle area overlooking Hyde Park in London. His youngest child, Valerie Scrimgeour, aged 5, was also killed. His wife, Fiona Scrimgeour (nee Smith, muggleborn) witnessed the deaths._

_At this point, DMLE spokeswizard Timothy Williamson is unwilling to comment on the speculation that this was a direct result of Scrimgeour having been named as a possible pro tem replacement for Minister Fudge (see **Vote of No-Confidence Passes with Landslide Majority, p6**). "What we do know at this point," he said early this morning, "is that Bellatrix Lestrange and another unknown female subdued Mrs. Scrimgeour with a petrificus before killing first the little girl, and then Auror Scrimgeour. The Dark Mark was still visible when the curse on Mrs. Scrimgeour faded enough to allow her to floo for help."_

The first article went on to describe Scrimgeour's achievements, ending with a notice that funeral arrangements had yet to be determined, but Fiona had requested donations be made to St. Mungo's in lieu of sending flowers. The second article was shorter. Hermione felt that were the victim not a highly-placed Ministry worker, it likely wouldn't have been written at all. There was a ghastly photo of the still-smoking ruins, though, which probably made up for the lack of actual information. The last article was, by far, the longest.

_Azkaban, located on an unplottable island in the North Sea, is known to the whole of Wizarding Britain as the most notorious prison we possess, used to house the worst of the criminal element of our grand society. This is true no longer._

_During a raid late last night, Death Eaters managed to overcome both the dementors of the island fortress as well as their human counterparts. At any given time, Azkaban boasted a residency of seventeen aurors – twelve guards, three healers, the warden, and his assistant. As of the publication of this paper, only one had managed to escape._

_Clive Porter, assistant to the warden, managed to portkey to safety moments after Warden Hobbs had been killed. Porter sustained multiple injuries and is currently recuperating in St. Mungo's. He was unavailable for comment. Spokeswizard Timothy Williamson of the DMLE said, "The aurors at Azkaban were taken completely by surprise. It appears as though the invading Death Eaters utilized polyjuice potion to look like the aurors who had been scheduled to relieve them. Granted, the changeovers typically take place during daylight hours, but it has happened in the past that shift-change has been brought forward or pushed back due to circumstances." All of the remaining personnel on the island are presumed dead._

_As of yesterday afternoon, the prison contained fifty-two inmates, including such notables as Lucius Malfoy (apprehended during the attack on the Ministry a few short weeks ago), the Lestrange Brothers (also apprehended at the Ministry incident), and Robert Dyer (more commonly known as 'The Mad Obliviating Pervert'). Spokeswizard Williamson stated, "Before succumbing to sleeping potions, Mr. Porter indicated that the prisoners had been given the choice to either serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or die. We assume at this time that You-Know-Who's forces have been increased by the fifty-two individuals incarcerated in Azkaban."_

Hermione found it odd that the article failed to mention the estimated total number of Death Eaters. "Fat lot of good knowing they've increased by fifty-two does if we don't know how many he started off with," she grumbled. "I mean, if he started off with ten, and now has sixty-two followers, that's not so bad. But if this means he's now got five hundred, then…" She sighed and sat the paper down. "Let's look at this logically, shall we? If we take Hogwarts as a random sample starting base, then how many people, percentage-wise, have Death Eater leanings?"

She headed up to her room and retrieved a small notebook and a pencil before returning to her half-eaten breakfast. "Okay, let's see here… We've got an average of forty students among all four houses per year. That's 280 total. How many have expressed the same pureblood superiority sentiments that the Death Eaters are known for?" She scribbled down a list of names, then counted them. "That's seventeen, almost eighteen percent. And it doesn't even take into account those who share the beliefs who've not said as much out loud." Hermione shook her head at her notes. "With certainty, it's one-in-five. Might be as many as three-in-ten."

"Three what?" Emilia's voice came from behind her.

"Death Eaters," Hermione replied.

Emilia looked over Hermione's shoulder. She laughed at Hermione's arithmetic. "It's flawed, you know."

"What is?"

"Your basic assumption that Hogwarts is an accurate sample-base from which to derive any meaningful data."

Hermione pushed the chair across from her out and gestured for her 'sister' to take a seat. "Why do you say that?"

Emilia plopped onto the white-painted wrought-iron deck chair. "What do you think I was doing last night? I was getting caught up on what you know. Because what you know, I know." Emilia helped herself to the remainder of Hermione's milk. She smiled a little. "It's weird, how freeing it is to know I'm not really here." She held up her hand in a stop motion when Hermione opened her mouth to object. "No, hear me out. Until the dingbat duo made you get rid of me, I didn't know what I really was. Now I do, and it's freeing. It means I can say _anything_, do _anything_, and as long as you keep quiet about it, no one will know." She slid Hermione's half-finished breakfast over and began nibbling on the now-cold eggs. "But going back to your number-crunching. Why do you think Hogwarts is a good sample-base? That encyclopedia you carry around in the back of your mind – our mind – says that, aside from the muggleborn students, the majority of the people who go there are all descended, in one way or another, from the original hundred families."

Hermione really didn't know what Emilia was talking about. "The _what_ families?"

Emilia made a tsking noise. "Footnote from that research you did in your third year about that hippogriff. The original hundred families – the wizarding contingent of Wales, Scotland, and England, circa 1095. The families who banded together and withdrew from the muggle world, creating Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, and Diagon Alley. They created the basis of the Ministry, too." She finished up Hermione's breakfast and leaned back in her chair. "How is it that you read this information, yet didn't retain it?"

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe because History of Magic focuses on the rather bloody history we have with the goblin nation."

Emilia's eyebrows rose. "Ah, so if you're not getting graded on it, and it's not useful in helping that Harry-kid, it isn't worth knowing?"

Hermione did a fair impression of a goldfish. "That– You– It–"

Emilia chuckled. "You only get incoherent like this when I'm right." She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm here now, and I am _not_ going away again. If you really want to know how many Death Eaters there are, I'd suggest looking back at the trial records from the first time around. Take everyone they name, and add about two or three percent to your final number for the actual number. Then flash forward to now, add the children of those original Death Eaters, add an additional two or three percent. Then add however many of those from Azkaban who weren't already on either list. See? Doesn't that make a bit more sense than how you were trying to go about it?"

Hermione blinked. "Huh. I suppose so."

"In any case, wouldn't you rather we do something fun? It's a beautiful day."

* * *

Harry awoke to the incessant beeping noise that indicated his transdimensional communicator was receiving an incoming transmission. He fumbled about with the buttons on the watch for a moment before managing to accept the transmission. "Hello?" he said.

"Good morning, Harry," Lily's voice came through crystal clear. "Sorry it's been so long since I last spoke with you, but we had a string of technical issues to clear up. First, we had multi-dimensional interference and we had to wait three days for it to clear, then some moron trainee accidentally spilled a bowl of soup into the main communications array. Finally managed to get it up and running again yesterday, and I lost the coin-toss to Harvey."

Harry snickered. "Nice to see – erm, _hear_ – that you guys have problems, too."

"Everyone has problems, Harry," Lily replied. "But, issues with interns aside, I figured it was about time to check in with you. How is your summer progressing?"

"So far, so good," he said, slipping his glasses into place. "I'm not too thrilled with my housemates, though. Yeah, I expected Snape to be a… _challenge_, but he's actually being less of a git than I expected."

"Oh? What were you expecting?"

"I dunno… More like something along the lines of not being allowed out of my room, maybe house elf duties like he's fond of assigning for detentions. But he's being surprisingly reasonable – maybe it's just that he spent almost all of yesterday away."

Lily laughed lightly. "No, I think it's probably more because he's not all that fond of children. It's doubtful that he was given any detailed instructions on how you were to spend your time, and so he has probably figured that if you're allowed to come and go as you please, you'll spend less time underfoot."

"Sounds about right," Harry allowed, "except for that bit about no directions. I wouldn't think that Dumbledore would permit me to have much in the way of free time."

Lily sighed. "I know it seems that way, particularly after how he avoided you, yet micromanaged your time during the last school year, but the headmaster has very little free time of his own. From what we've been able to determine, the main reason he's so interested in you is simply because he believes you to be the one prophesized to defeat Voldemort."

"So?" Harry stretched and climbed out of bed. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Dumbledore is a strict adherent of predestination," Lily explained. "Even though prophecy – and divination as a whole – is a rather fuzzy discipline, he firmly believes that to go against prophecy is to invite disaster. He fails to see that of all the thousands of prophecies made in any given era, only a handful actually come to pass, and of that handful, maybe _one_ was correctly interpreted ahead of time. It all boils down to the Curse of Cassandra."

"The curse of who?"

"Cassandra. Apollo fell in love with her and granted her the ability to see the future. When she failed to return his love, he then cursed her so that none would ever believe her predictions. Basically, the reason prophecies must be interpreted is because the original seer was cursed to be unbelievable. All modern seers are descended of Cassandra and share in the curse."

Harry paused in pulling on a pair of jeans. "I suppose that explains why the prophecy didn't simply say 'Harry Potter will be able to defeat Voldemort, but it's not guaranteed'."

"Exactly. Now, from what you just said, am I right in assuming you know the prophecy Dumbledore is placing all his belief in?"

"Yeah. He showed me a pensieve memory of it."

"Would you share? We've not been able to get more than the first line of its text, though we do have the basic sense of it."

Harry finished pulling on his jeans. "Sure. Um… _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies._"

"Let me see if I have this right," Lily repeated it back to him.

"Yeah. That's it."

Lily let out a strange strangled noise. "Damn it, what the _hell_ is that man thinking?"

Harry slipped a t-shirt on over his head. "Pardon?"

"If that's the entirety of the prophecy he's using to dictate his actions, then he's a bigger fool than I'd figured. There's nothing at all in it to say that it has anything to do with Voldemort!"

"But what about all the 'Dark Lord' mentions?"

"Please! Every megalomaniacal idiot with delusions of grandeur throughout history has been referred to as 'the Dark Lord'. All this prophecy says is that someone born at the end of 'the seventh month' will be able to defeat _a_ dark lord. Nothing at all in it says that _you_ are the supposed hero, or that Voldemort is the dark lord in question!" Lily sighed again. "However, this is what Dumbledore is using to guide his decisions with regards to you, so we need to approach it the same way he has."

"Well, that's easy. He explained that when he heard the prophecy, it could have applied to either me or Neville, but since Voldemort came after me – leaving me with the scar – it wound up being me that the prophecy was talking about. I admit I didn't want to hear about it at the time, but it seemed to make sense." Harry sat at his desk and stared out the window that overlooked the back garden.

"There are a million different ways to interpret that prophecy, Harry, beginning with ways to count the months. Though we use '07' to denote 'July' when writing dates numerically, how do we know the prophecy wasn't saying 'in the seventh month from now'? Was it given in the December before you were born?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "Dumbledore didn't say when it was given, just that it was before Neville and I were born. It could have been December, but the memory didn't say either way."

"There you go," Lily said. "The prophecy itself is fundamentally flawed, but Dumbledore is convinced he's got the right of it, and so he's working to make sure it plays out as he's interpreted."

"So that means what, exactly?"

"Well, for starters, he's going to finagle it so that you and Voldemort come into direct opposition in a combative circumstance."

Harry let out a snort. "Been there already," he said. "But I don't think Dumbledore masterminded the thing at the Ministry, and I'm nearly positive he didn't cause the whole graveyard thing at the end of the tournament in my fourth year."

"He probably didn't in either case. He was, if we have this right, actually trying to keep you from facing Voldemort yet. You were supposed to learn occlumency, weren't you?"

Harry nodded, even though Lily couldn't see him. "Yeah, but Snape couldn't teach his way out of a wet paper bag. All he ever did was shout 'clear your mind' then go rampaging though my memories like a bull in a china shop."

Lily let out a burble of laughter. "Well, not to malign your impression of Severus Snape, but it really _is_ that easy, you know. The biggest issue with the mind-magics is that everyone is always trying to make them harder than they really are."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the foundation of occlumency is the ability to actively _not think_. To just let your mind go blank. A good way to start off is to identify those times when you naturally 'blank out'. It's how I learned – I figured out I tend to go 'blank' when I was sunbathing. Once I got the knack for realizing _that_ was what I needed to aim for, the rest was almost shamefully easy."

"Huh." Oddly, it made sense to Harry. "I'll work on that, then. But getting back to our main topic – if Dumbledore is following the prophecy, then how come he wouldn't want me to face Voldemort yet?"

"Because the prophecy itself doesn't say who wins, Harry, and though the headmaster is orchestrating the final showdown, it doesn't mean that he wants Voldemort to win. Our best guess is that he's going to try to pull your strings so that you start focusing more and more of your time on learning how to fight. When he deems you ready – meaning when victory is assured – he'll then point you in Voldemort's direction."

"And I get no say in this."

"Of course not!" Lily exclaimed. "Dumbledore is following _prophecy_."

"The same prophecy that doesn't indicate who wins or loses."

"Yep."

"The same prophecy that you can't say with any certainty actually pertains to myself and Voldemort."

"Yep."

"Well, screw that!" Harry felt an odd sensation, almost as though an immeasurably heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I have absolutely no desire to be a martyr, and that's what would happen if I tried to face Voldemort again. I think he's learned his lesson from the graveyard after the third task and after the incident at the Ministry. If he and I come face-to-face again, I doubt he will hesitate in killing me."

"Though it pains me to say so, Harry, I don't think you've got much choice in the matter. Even without the prophecy and Dumbledore's interpretation of it, it didn't stop Voldemort from coming after you, did it?"

Harry sighed. "No, it didn't. So, at this point, I either die because Voldemort's come after me, or I die when Dumbledore points me his direction. I'd really like to see a third option here where I manage to live."

Lily chuckled. "That's what you've got me for. Remember, I told you that I'm helping you because, should Voldemort come out victorious, he's going to start in on other dimensions. I really _do not_ want to see him come knocking on my door!"

"Enlightened self-interest." Harry smirked a little. "At least you're honest about it. Now, if Dumbledore's aims – even if he is working according to the prophecy – are to stop Voldemort, and your aims are to stop Voldemort, then why not go along with Dumbledore's plans?"

"Because MOTAP predicts that should you follow the old man's lead on this, there is a 98% certainty that you will fail."

"Magic Oriented Timeline Analysis and Projection – did I get that right?" Harry asked.

"Absolutely. MOTAP tells us that Dumbledore is going to have you focus exclusively on dueling. In and of itself, not a bad idea, but your wand and Voldemort's are paired, are they not?"

"Paired? Oh, you mean brothers. Yeah, they both have a core from the same phoenix."

"Paired wands can't duel each other, as you well know. Voldemort also knows this and MOTAP says there is a better-than-99% probability that he's been training on a secondary wand. Yet you still use the same one, don't you?"

Harry felt gooseflesh creep down his spine. "Yeah. I do."

"There you go. Evidence of the short-sightedness of Dumbledore in action. So, what are you going to do?"

"Buy a new wand?"

"Good idea, but I've a better one."

Harry frowned. "What's that, then?"

"In order for a wand to be paired, not only must they share a core, but they have to be crafted by the same person. So, one of the easiest ways to make sure a wand isn't paired is to make your own."

"Oh. So you want me to make my own new wand?"

"Precisely."

Harry shook his head and rubbed his temples lightly with his fingertips. "How do I do that? I mean, if it was so easy, then Ollivander wouldn't have a business that dates back for thousands of years."

"There's a book on how to craft wands in your computer. But Ollivander has his business simply because people are lazy. You can make cheese at home, but how many people go to all that trouble when they can simply go to the grocery store and buy some?"

"I guess I can see that," Harry allowed. An idea burst forth in his mind and he didn't hesitate to vocalize it. "If prophecies are so hard to interpret correctly, then how come you follow the advice of that MOTAP thingy?"

"The Curse of Cassandra is on _people_, not inanimate spell-programmed computers. Besides, MOTAP doesn't give us prophesies, all it does is calculate probabilities. When it first came online back in '74, it had an accuracy rating of about eighty percent. Nowadays, its accuracy is just a fraction under perfect."

"Oh," Harry replied, feeling as though he should have been able to figure it out on his own.

"Of course, the further away a particular probability is, the lower the accuracy becomes. Simply put, MOTAP can figure something happening tomorrow with almost-certainty, but ask it to figure something ten years from now and it has a high chance of being wrong."

"So how's it do on mid-range?" Harry asked. "Say, the next two months?"

"Averages run at 98% accuracy for any timeframe from three weeks up to ninety days. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious at how well it thinks my plans for this summer will turn out is all," Harry replied.

"What plans do you have in mind?" Lily asked, her voice more curious than a basketful of cats.

"Well, hang on a moment – I have a list." Harry rummaged around in his desk and came up with his 'to-do' list. "Okay, first on the list is to learn how to manage my inheritances. I talked with Neville yesterday, and he said he was going to ask his uncle to give me a hand in learning all about estate management and how to head a family."

A series of _beeps_ and _boops_ sounded over the connection, reminding Harry of the noises made by touchtone telephones. "It's not a priority, is it?" Lily asked, overlapping the noise in the background.

"Not really, but I will need to know this stuff if I manage to survive Voldemort."

"Good. MOTAP projections show a nine percent probability that you'll succeed in learning all you'll need to know on that in the next ninety days. It's higher if you focus on one area or the other, but the best projections are still only 14%. That's if you focus exclusively on money management, ignoring all else, including schoolwork."

Harry let out a helpless little chuckle. "Kinda figured this was a long-term goal sort of situation. Nice to be proven right."

Lily laughed her agreement. "What else are you planning on?"

"I'm going to hire some tutors. I'd like to finish up my homework early this summer, that way I can focus on trying to learn something that just might help me survive."

More beeping from MOTAP echoed in the background. "This one's better, depending on how advanced you were thinking of going and in what subjects," Lily replied. "Which topics did you want to focus on and to what level?"

"Well, I'd like to get about a year ahead in my Hogwarts classes. I'm hoping to qualify for the auror program after I finish my NEWTs, so I want to continue on in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Potions."

Lily made a weird hissing noise through her teeth. "You had the normal 'what are you planning to do with your life' interviews during the school year, right?"

"Yeah… So?"

"Who did you do your career planning with? Trelawney?"

"No, McGonagall. Why?"

"Damn it, she should have known better." Lily took a deep breath and let it out slowly, almost as though she were trying not to hex someone. "Okay, I'll simply chalk it up to Dumbledore's influence."

"What? Why?"

"Harry," Lily replied, "you won't be accepted into the auror program. Nobody is who has a criminal record, and you have two black marks against you – the incident with the dementors, which can be contested, since you acted to save your life and that of your cousin, and the hovering charm from before your second year."

"That one wasn't me!" Harry protested. "A house elf named Dobby did it, and I got blamed!"

"Unfortunately, even if the house elf were to admit to doing the charm, elf testimony is not allowable in court, and so there is no legal way to show you _didn't_ cast the spell. But that's not all, Harry."

"What else?" Harry's voice was flat.

"They don't just look at OWL and NEWT scores, the board also examines your school record. You need to obtain a minimum of Es in all your classes prior to the OWLs, and all NEWT-level classes must be passed with Os. In addition to this, they don't accept anyone with an overall class standing of less than fifth, unless there are ties for positions – for example, if the first three spots were tied by two people each and you came in at spot four, your rank would be seventh. Your current rank is nineteen, just ahead of Seamus Finnegan and just behind Hannah Abbott. They also check detentions given."

Harry sighed with more force than was strictly necessary. "Say no more. So, you're saying I've got about as much chance of talking Voldemort into joining a monastery as I do of getting into the aurors."

Lily giggled. "I could run the numbers if you want me to, but I don't think you'd like the result."

"No, I don't think I would," Harry replied. "In that case, I have no bloody idea what I'll do after Voldemort."

"Who says you have to do anything at all? I think you'll find that heading a family, let alone two of them, is going to be a full-time job all on its own. It's not like you actually have to work, you know."

"There is that, I suppose. So… What would you suggest? I mean, I've already sent letters out to the tutors I wanted."

"Who?"

"A fellow named Pete Smith for transfiguration, charms, and potions; Augustine Dunbarton for mind-magics, arithmancy, runes, and wards and set-spells; and Cora Pyria for healing, defense, and mind-magics. They were recommended by Amelia Bones."

More noise from MOTAP punctuated a short wait before Lily replied. "Well, they're all available. I can't really speak as to their competency, but MOTAP is saying that you've good odds for achieving some pretty decent levels in those areas."

"What's it look like?"

"Let's see… For arithmancy, your odds of reaching a passable OWL level are 95%. Runes shows a 98% chance of reaching the end of fourth-year level, and it drops to 56% if you're aiming for OWLs. Wards and set-spells don't have an OWL or NEWT, but MOTAP is giving you 60% odds on reaching journeyman status in the Mastery division. For transfiguration, you've got 92% odds on NEWT level, and 85% odds on reaching an animagus transformation by the end of summer. Charms shows similar odds, at 91% for a passable NEWT. Healing is like wards and has no OWL or NEWT, but you can reach apprentice-journeyman level in the Mastery division with an 88% probability. Mind-magics again have no OWL or NEWT, but like I mentioned before, once you figure out the 'blanks', it's really rather easy, so your chances are at 97% to attain passive mastery and 89% for active mastery. Potions is on the low side of the scale, 78% odds to reach the end of sixth-year level, 45% if you aim for a passable NEWT. Conversely, you stand to attain a Mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts with 94% odds."

"Disappointing about the potions, but not unexpected," Harry replied. "And a Mastery in defense? Really?"

"Yep. You haven't gotten your OWL scores yet, have you?"

"Not yet. I think they're due out sometime next week."

"In that case, I'm not going to spoil the surprise for you. But altogether, you've got pretty decent chances of succeeding in your summer tutelage."

"Finally, something that will go according to plan," Harry joked. "But could I ask something?"

"Sure."

"Could you explain what you meant when you mentioned the journeyman things?"

"Oh, well, if you apprentice in a particular subject, there are levels. Essentially, if you were to apprentice in, say, charms, the levels are: Pre-OWL, OWL, Pre-NEWT, NEWT, Apprentice, Journeyman, and Master. Hogwarts covers everything through NEWT for most subjects. Others like healing and such draw on existing curricula to that level, then are divided into apprentice, journeyman, and master levels, though healing uses 'trainee,' 'mediwitch' or 'mediwizard', and 'healer' for those distinctions. When I said you had an 88% chance of attaining apprentice-journeyman in healing, what that means is that you'd know most of what trainee healers know and a little of what mediwizards know, but wouldn't be able to pass the mastery test."

"Is that the same for mind-magics?"

"No, in the case of occlumency and legilimency, there isn't an actual mastery like there is for charms or potions. In that case, what I was indicating was your personal mastery of the spells themselves. So, 97% odds to master occlumency and 89% to master legilimency."

"From that alone, I feel safe in assuming that legilimency is harder than occlumency."

"True, but not by much. Was there anything else you wanted me to query MOTAP on?"

"I don't know – any suggestions?"

Lily laughed again. "Oh, I've _loads_ of suggestions, but I suppose most will have to wait until you think of them yourself. I do have one bit I can come right out with, though."

"And what's that?"

"Don't get too comfy. You're only going to be at your current location for about another three days, plus-or-minus six hours."

"Oh? Where will I be going?"

"_That_ I can't say. Equal odds on nearly a dozen places. But, if I were you, I'd start looking though my properties for a place big enough for all of you for the rest of the summer."

"I'll take it under advisement," Harry said, doing his best to impersonate Percy Weasley.

"Getting back around to the topic at hand, though," Lily's voice returned to being mostly-serious. "Did you get a chance to check Snape's marks like I told you to?"

"Uh, no," Harry replied. "The last time we spoke, static made that last bit almost un-hearable. What's his Dark Mark got to do with anything?"

"No, not the Dark Mark, Harry," Lily sounded a little impatient. "The other marks he wears. They're small, located behind either ear. We're pretty sure they have something to do with a spell Dumbledore uses to control his puppets, but we're not certain. I'd appreciate it if you could manage to get a clear look at them. If possible, ideally, we'd like to see you send photos of them to Luna Lovegood."

"Why Luna?"

"You don't honestly think you're the _only_ one in your dimension with whom we have contact?"

Harry shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "But… _Luna_?"

"Neona Lovegood, nee Aldwinckle, also worked as a technomage for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Interdimensional Threats. She volunteered to test out an early version of the transference station we used to send you the computer and backpack. She wound up stranded in your dimension in May of '76. She was working on creating another transference station to try to come home when she fell in love with Xenophilius Lovegood. She opted to remain in your world, even after completing her transference station. Since it was running smoothly, there were no complaints from our bosses. Neona was killed in an accident – she was working out the kinks in sending living matter through the transference portal – in November of 1990. So, unless you know of someone _else_ in your world who has a transference station in their possession…?"

"Um, no," Harry grinned. _This explains so much about Luna._

"So, if you get the chance, send her photos of the marks on Snape. Once we have copies, then finding out whether or not they have anything to do with Dumbledore will be relatively easy."

"How come you don't know already?"

"We're not gods, Harry," Lily chided. "We can see quite a bit through our wonderful little gadgets, but the angle is fixed, rather like a muggle security camera. We've tried to see the marks ourselves, but that man is more paranoid than is healthy – he puts up anti-scrying spells anywhere we have a chance of getting a good view without his hair in the way. We did come close at the end of the Weasley twins' second year, but he was just out-of-frame."

"What happened at the end of Fred'n'George's second year?"

Lily giggled. "Oh, they managed to put a hex on the teacher's table in the Great Hall – it made everyone bald for a full ten minutes."

Harry laughed. "Wish I'd seen it."

"Get a pensieve and have one of them copy you the memory," Lily suggested.

Harry added it to his 'to-do' list.

* * *

"No, not _quite_ right. Try it again. Huh-ello." Nicole paused long enough to finish scrubbing her teeth while Gabrielle tried to master the English 'h' sound once more.

"Allo."

"Nope. Huh. Huh-ello. You really want to get the H right, it's the first letter of Harry, after all." Nicole demonstrated the sound again, though the rest of her words were in their native French. "Just relax your jaw, drop your mouth open a tiny bit, and then engage your vocal chords with just the littlest bit more force at the start of the word than at the end."

"Hello."

Nicole applauded, causing her toothbrush to spray foam on the mirror in their bathroom. "You got it!"

Gabrielle grinned and looked in the mirror. "Hello, my name eez –"

"It's 'eh' not 'ee'. Ehz. Try again."

"Hello," Gabrielle repeated. "My name is Gabrielle Delacour."

"Fantastic!" Nicole rinsed off her toothbrush and followed it up by swishing mouthwash for a moment. After spitting, she and Gabrielle returned to their bedroom. "Next sentence, 'I am a veela'."

"I am a veela," Gabrielle dutifully repeated. "That one was easy," she commented in French.

Nicole nodded, "But can you say 'that was easy' in English?"

Gabrielle giggled, "Maybe, but only if there aren't any of those damn impossible letters!"

Flopping on her still-unmade bed, Nicole shook her head. "Nope. It's just, 'that was easy'."

Gabrielle mimicked her to another round of applause. They continued with basic English for another couple of hours before hunger intruded. The pair then called a halt to lessons and traveled to the kitchen. As had been the case the day before, the room was empty. "It is like nous vivons ici tout seul," Gabrielle said. (…we live here all alone.)

Nicole provided the appropriate translation before nodding in agreement. "If I had known it would be like this," she said, first in French, then in English, "I wouldn't have agreed to come."

Gabrielle shrugged and set to ransacking the cupboards for something edible. "Nous avons seulement été un jour ici." (We have only been here one day.) She held up a jar of pickled beets and wrinkled her nose. "There is no food here!" She was pretty sure she'd managed to get her meaning across in English.

"I agree," Nicole replied. "Je souhaite que nous avions apporté un elfe de maison avec nous." (I wish we had brought a house elf with us.)

Gabrielle reached to put the jar back in its place in the cupboard, but it slipped out of her grip and crashed on the floor, spewing red juice everywhere. She let out a string of cussing that would have made hardened criminals stop and stare in awe.

Nicole just laughed at her, at least, she laughed until Harry appeared in the doorway, his wand drawn. It took him a moment to assess the situation and return his wand to his back pocket. He strode over the juice-and-glass covered floor, meaning to maneuver the blonde into sitting while he cleaned up the mess, but noticed she was barefoot as he came around the table. "Tell her not to move," he told the brunette.

Nicole shivered a little at his cold tone, but translated. Tacked on to her translation, she added, "I think we made him angry."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "You think? Why's he so ticked anyway? It's not like I dropped it on purpose!"

While French flew over his head, Harry grabbed a broom and dust pan from the cubby between the icebox and stove and the tea towel from next to the sink. "Pigs," he muttered. "I'm stuck living with a pair of giggling pigs."

Nicole managed to catch his mumbling and scowled at him. For Gabby's benefit, she translated. Gabrielle wasn't great at controlling her temper in the best of circumstances. This was far from the best of circumstances. She shoved Harry hard enough that he landed on his ass, luckily away from the glass shards, and shouted, "Je t'encule!" (Fuck you!) She then lightly leapt onto the table, bypassing the rest of the mess she'd caused. "Va te faire foutre, toi fils de pute!" (Go fuck yourself, you son of a bitch!) She continued shouting, even as she jumped off the table and headed for the archway.

Even though Gabby obviously expected her to follow, Nicole remained sitting at the table. It wasn't entirely her fault, she couldn't breathe from laughing so hard. Harry was staring at the ceiling, mentally cursing the fates for making him live with the giggling duo. Eventually, his own temper was wrestled into control, and he managed to get the mess cleaned up. While disposing of the glass and linty beets in the rubbish bin under the sink, Nicole finally quit laughing. "She didn't do it on purpose, you know."

"Maybe not," Harry said through clenched teeth. "But the mess you two left yesterday _was_. If it's escaped your attention, we don't have any house elves here, so CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES! Is that really too much to ask?"

Nicole winced at his shouting. "Oh… Sorry. We didn't realize."

"Obviously." Harry punctuated the reply by tossing the purple-stained towel in the sink.

Nicole ignored the sarcasm. "Somehow, I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. Can we start again?"

Harry's shoulders slumped and he ran some cold water on the stained towel. "I suppose so."

"I'm Nicole Morel. The blonde with the temper problem is Gabrielle Delacour. Gabby doesn't know much English, but we hope to fix that with our little visit. I have an aunt that lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and I spent a large amount of time there as a child, so I know enough to get by, but please be patient with me if you say something I'm not familiar with."

Harry nodded and turned to face her after turning off the tap. "I'm Harry Potter – but I'm sure you already knew that." He returned his attention to the towel, wringing it out and spreading it on the edge of the sink to dry.

"I did. It was something of a surprise to find you here."

Thinking she meant that neither of the girls had figured on meeting a 'celebrity', Harry snorted. "I'll bet."

Nicole smirked. "Not that way. May I call you Harry?"

He nodded. "In what way, then?"

"You're who we came to find."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Thanks, but no. You and Miss Delacour can just march yourselves back to Beauxbatons. I have no need for groupies."

Nicole both winced and let out a little nervous laugh. "Not exactly what we were going for, but not completely inaccurate, either."

"What?"

Nicole shrugged. "I mean… Well…" She chewed on her bottom lip for a minute, then tried again. "Okay, I'm going to start at the beginning."

"Always a good place to start."

She ignored the comment. "What do you know of veela?"

"Not much. The Bulgarians had them at the World Cup a couple of years ago."

Nicole grimaced. She was going to have to start with the absolute basics. "Before I get into it in detail, do you know how to cook?"

Harry repressed a grin at her pathetically pleading expression. "Yeah. Why?"

"Because I can't and I'm _starving_. I'll do the dishes if you make us something for lunch."

"Deal," Harry replied. He then set to seeing what was available. While he worked, Nicole explained about veela, Gabrielle, and just why they'd come to the UK to begin with.

When lunch was little more than dirty plates and crumbs, Nicole gathered the dishes while Harry sat digesting both food and information. "So… If I decide not to be with Gabby," he used the form of her name which Nicole had tended to use, "she turns into a harpy, _permanently_?"

Nicole sat the plates and glasses in the sink and started the hot water. "Yes. She hasn't any choice in the matter – it's entirely up to you."

_Why does this crap always fall on me?_ Harry thought it but didn't dare say so out loud. "I'm not saying 'no'," he said and Nicole spun around with a sunny smile on her face. "_But_," he stressed, "I'm not saying 'yes' either. I simply don't know her well enough yet to make _any_ life-changing decisions. All I really know about her as a person right now is that she's got a temper, doesn't clean up after herself, and doesn't speak the only language I know. Is there a time-limit before she becomes a harpy?"

Nicole nodded. "Since she knew who the magic wanted before her sixteenth birthday, she has exactly one year to convince you. So, to answer your next question, you've got until June nineteenth to make up your mind."

_In that case, I'm not going to worry about it too much. If I wind up liking her, even as just a friend, I'll probably say okay, but right now, that seems like an awfully big if._ Harry didn't mention what his thoughts were saying. "You two are going to stick around that long?"

"If we need to, we can transfer to Hogwarts, but personally, I'd rather not. I'm not sure where Gabby is on her schooling, but I'm advanced enough in Wandless Theory and Practice to be able to test for my Mastery in it." She blinked and reconsidered. "Well, I _think_ so, but I could be wrong, of course. Alternatively, we could defer our next year of school. There are a couple of others who started in our class that have needed to defer a year. Marie-Zéphyrine Vallet went a step too far with her boyfriend and they both deferred their sixth years."

Harry smirked. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

Nicole nodded solemnly. "Absolutely. We're a year ahead of you in school."

Harry's brain twitched, or at least it felt like it did. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not what I meant."

Nicole giggled. "I know what you meant. You're too easy to fool. You'll need to work on that if you spend any time around me and Gabby."

_Great, instead of the French versions of Lavender and Parvati, I've got French female versions of Fred and George!_ Harry rotated his head to stare up at the ceiling. _Whatever I did to piss You off, God, could You please let me know what it was? That way I won't ever do it again!_

* * *

**A/N2:** Again, I apologize for the unintentional mangling of the French bits contained herein. I hope someone out there who actually knows the language either okays it or provides me with a better translation than Google! Thanks in advance.

Digital baked goods to everyone who's reading this whacked-out storyline, and extras for those who take the time to review!


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